


Loner in Bremen

by twistedpencilfever



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), James Buchanan Barnes - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky being kind of a little shit, Bucky x You - Freeform, Edging, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gun-fire, I promise, Language, Light Angst, Light Smut, Loner, Maybe HAppy ending, Needles, Orgasm Denial, Protective Bucky Barnes, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Very Heavy, Violence, Wall Sex, a healthy dose of angst, and it gets heavier, basically a quickie, beware of the needles cause they're here, it's kind of unintentional edging but still, just enough to keep it interesting, kind of torture, mild at best, next time it's gonna be a longie (if that's even a word), not gonna be terribly long, nothing too crazy, reader has the mouth of a sailor, short series, soon to be heavy smut, the smut has arrived, unprotected sex, updated often, wrap it before you tap it guys come on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedpencilfever/pseuds/twistedpencilfever
Summary: You’re an assassin on your own in the German city of Bremen.In the midst of a doublecross, a man with a metal arm saves your life and helps you out of the city.How he found you and why he was there in the first place… I guess you’ll find out.





	1. Loner In Bremen

The first time you see that damned arm, you’re trapped in a deal gone south on the outskirts of Bremen. The crumbling brick walls squeeze you and some filthy dickwad into a small boxing ring. No spectators.

Dust kicks up at your feet as you scuffle with the idiot who tried to double cross you.

“Son of a bitch!” You gasp, half shocked he managed to land a hit. A thin slice of red colors the edge of his serrated knife but you can’t feel the cut. A damn steak knife. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

A sharp burst of anger shoots through your arm and a crack shatters the bones in his wrist sending the kitchen weapon into the cloud of dust at your feet. You were not about to be beaten by a scrawny dickwad like this.

Your other fist tightens, swinging around to bring the final blow, when a hard punch collides into your shoulder sending you backwards. The ache and numbness follows you into the wall of the alley.

You scan the point of impact but there’s no knife. Just slick blood smearing the faux leather of your jacket. What the hell? A quick glance at the rooftops and you pinpoint the shooter, his head bobbing as he turns tail and runs.

A sniper. Figures. Maybe you should have called in for backup too. But to have backup you needed friends. Of which you had none. And of course, you hadn’t been expecting a double cross. No way this guy’s smart enough, you’d thought. Well surprise surprise.

Dickwad’s boots grind on the ground and your head whips around, his good fist lining for the perfect crook of your nose. But it doesn’t make it.

Before any expletive finds its way out, a thick arm cuts through your field of view taking Dickwad’s mangled face with it.

Your nails grind against the brick as you frantically pull against gravity. You don’t want to be around for the second punch. The force that guy was hit by was unreal.

While your hand scrambles for purchase, your eyes glance around, taking in the hulk of a man towering over the limp backstabber. There was no way you could take him with a damaged arm. His damn thighs were as big as your waist.

His broad shoulders turn to face you, grey eyes lock on your bloody jacket. He’s looking to exploit your weakness. It’s beginning to look like you won’t make it out of this stupid ally.

He reaches for your shoulder, probably to dig his finger into the wound and shove you to the ground. Once you were there it’d only take one good punch with the same force that took out Dickwad over there.

Before he can touch, you snatch the wrist of his gloved hand and, hoping his momentum is enough, shove him towards the brick wall. Your nails dig into the soft leather, but instead of pulling his whole body, just the glove slips free and falls mutely to the dust.

The glint of metal in the light burns your eyes and your heart sinks to your feet. He’s got a fucking metal prosthetic; no doubt the cause of Dickwad’s instant crumple to the ground.

He’s a damn wall. Unmoving and definitely stronger than you. Yes you were strong, and yeah you were trained, but even muscle memory and stamina can be useless against an enemy with ten times that and a metal arm.

You backstep as far as you can go, frantically scanning every inch of him waiting for the slightest movement. If you could dodge the punches long enough to slip by, maybe you could-

“Du wurdest erschossen.”

Your eyes shoot to his mouth, brain struggling to translate faster than he could swing his shining fist.

But he doesn’t swing his fist, and your brain clicks with the German language. _You’ve been shot_.

Well no shit.

His question shoots around your head, bouncing off possible responses in the same language, but none make it out of your mouth. Your German was never very good; it always sounded too American.

Instead of chancing a wrong dialect, you nod. He can’t get any information from you if you just nod.

His right foot pops the kernels of dirt as he steps closer to you. Your left heel hits the resistance of the brick wall behind you as you counter.

For a minute he doesn’t move and you think maybe he isn’t a threat to you.

You almost laugh at yourself. Just his presence is enough to smother you. His jaw clenches and your eyes follow the movement to the stubble that peppers his face and neck. He looks almost offended that you would perceive him as a threat.

“North or south?” he whips around with his right hand to his ear, the metal one pulls a black hand gun from his waist band. He’s got backup. Of course everyone but you was smart enough to bring backup.

He’s also got no accent. Probably American. From the sound of his o’s and r’s, north-eastern US. Or he’s just a talented linguist.

He glances back at you, his brunet hair whipping around and splaying across his jaw and catching on the scruff of his chin. Do you tell him you speak English?

“Wir müssen gehen,” He says, nodding his head towards the T of the alley.

 _We need to go._ He doesn’t need to know you speak English. And you really don’t want to follow him. You take a quick look at Dickwad, who’s either severely concussed or just dead, and stay planted where you are.

He follows your eyes and rolls his own. If he’s angry at you or himself you can’t tell, but he’s not happy. And you’re not about to follow some metal armed killing machine into the open. Not that the shadows of the alley are any safer.

“Jetzt,” He spits at you. “Gehen jetzt.”

Before you can manage a word, bullets obliterate the brick around you. Shards pierce your skin and you dive, eyes closed, anywhere but where you are. Your eardrums vibrate with each impact but you can’t cover your ears. Your hands are already shielding your eyes.

Something collides into your chest before you can reach the ground and the air is torn from your lungs. For a second, you think it’s another bullet, but there’s no ache or pain, just pressure that pulls you with it.

Your feet scrape the dirt and someone’s yelling at you to run. The pressure moves to pull on your arm. Brick pieces cease their barrage against your body and your eyes shoot open, racing left and right to take in everything at once:

The cold metal hand now gripping your arm and pulling so hard the skin feels like it’ll tear if you don’t go where it goes.

The tall brunet man it’s attached to who’s scanning the tops of pointed buildings for the sniper who tagged you barely two minutes ago.

The crowds of people panicked and parting to make way for you: the bleeding woman and the man with the gun. Or maybe it was the hitman with an AK on the building behind you.


	2. Loner In Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running from the onslaught of hidden snipers, you blindly follow the brunet man with a metal arm.

Brunet is waving his gun through the air. He’s shouting at everyone who’ll listen. Screaming to move, to get out of the way. German English French Russian. Jesus how many languages does this hulking man know?

Each pointed peak of house and store above you are potential sniper spots. Everywhere. They’re everywhere. 

The worst enemy is one you can’t see. And shit are you two blind. 

Brunet is snapping at the people on the other end of his comm but you don’t see any friendlies; Just wide eyes and hitmen in disguise. 

Two long seconds later and you’re back in the darkness of another alley. 

“A little late on the heads-up, Wilson,” Brunet huffs. He turns to you, light eyes scanning for damage.

An unwelcome spark hits the pit of your stomach when he spends a second too long on your chest. 

“Are you going to kill me?” May as well get the obvious question out there.

His head shoots up from their scan of your legs. “You speak English,” he states more than asks, his expression wiped from alertness to annoyance.

“Answer the question.”

Both of you glance at the rooftops before continuing. No reason both of you should die because of negligent sniper lookouts. 

“If I was here to kill you, why would I save you.” Good point. But he could be the kind of sicko who likes to watch em die. It would explain the metal arm. Maybe he’s a choker. A smotherer; looks you in the eyes and watches you go. You knew a few people like that. 

“Who’s with you?” you ask, nodding your head to the comm piece barely visible behind the locks of thick hair covering his ear.

“It’s just me.”

“Then who the hell are you talking to?”

“They’re too far to matter. Don’t worry about it.”

You scoff at him, eyes watching a shifty bystander mess with something in their pocket before passing the alley and walking out of sight.

“We’re in this together now. Can I trust you?” He holds out his right, still-gloved, hand. You wonder if that one’s metal too.

“What do you mean ‘now’? You didn’t have to butt in-”

“It was just supposed to be the crony. The snipers and foot soldiers were a surprise. They knew we were coming for you.” He glances over his shoulder then to the roof behind you. 

What the hell was this guy talking about? Had they been tracking you? If he wasn’t tracking you to kill, then what did him and his comm friends want? 

The same man passes by fiddling with something in his jacket but keeps walking. 

“Shit,” he breathes, hand covering his ear as he leans forward to listen. “There’s more coming.”

Before you can say anything, and before the two of you can sprint for the streets again, a black SUV squeals to a halt at the T of the alley. The windows are tinted as dark as the paint. 

The door clicks and swings open. Brunet’s metal arm flies to your chest as the point of an AK pops from the darkness of the cabin. He’s shielding you. You don’t have time to question his movement when a familiar voice calls from the car. 

“Y/n you dipshit! What the hell’d you do this time?”

The AK lowers and a fair skinned blond leans out of the shadows and waves you in. The face is familiar and you’re pretty sure the guy owes you a favor, so you sidestep Brunet’s metal arm and head for the car.

“Lets go! Lets go!” He calls, gesturing to Brunet who falters before following you into the air conditioning and leather seated SUV.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” the blonde says, your bodies jostling as the SUV takes off into the farmlands leaving the city buildings behind. “Alive that is.”

What was his name? For the life of you, you couldn’t grasp it. Thomas? No. You laugh at him, avoiding conversation until you can remember his damned name. Theo. . . no. 

“Who’s the friend?” he asks, nodding towards the hunched brunet who was gripping the ‘oh shit’ handle above his head. 

“He’s not a friend,” you blurt, before the brunet has a chance to say anything. His mouth closes and he glances at the blond from the corner of his eye. 

“Hey Thompson, we’re about 3 miles out,” The driver announces, his head turning slightly but his eyes not leaving the gravely road. 

Thompson! That’s it. You’d pulled the guy out of a quarry in Austria when he’d been surrounded by a bunch of Agents. The same ‘agents’ had been after you a few months prior so you figured the enemy of your enemy was your friend or something like that. Guess it paid off.

“Got it. We can pull over and regroup there,” Thompson asserts

You hadn’t even registered that there were more people in the car. Three to be exact; Thompson, a driver, and two others you didn’t recognize. 

“We can’t regroup this close to the city,” you say. “The sniper who tagged me could be tracking us.”

“Don’t worry Y/N, we’ll be safe on the outskirts.”

You were about to call bullshit when you glanced over at the brunet, feeling his left hand ball into a fist against your thigh. The muscles in his jaw clench. He knew Thompson was lying too. His grey eyes look to you, then to the driver and the man in the passengers seat. Their shoulders were so tense you could almost see the veins poping out of the tendons in their necks. 

Well shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love criticism! And I love you my dear reader! Thank you for reading!


	3. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With two possible threats surrounding you, you have to choose who to trust. Do you trust the man who owes you a favor, or the one who pulled you from gunfire?

The SUV slows to an idle and Thompson pushes the doors open. When the others get out, you and the brunet stay put. You think for a second who you should trust. On the one hand, there’s the man who’s name you’d forgotten. He owes you a favor for saving his life but you’re not sure if he’s good for it. _On the other_ , you turn slightly to glance up at the brunet, _this guy_. You owed him nothing yet he pulled you from the barrage of gunfire and shattering brick.

“C’mon Y/N, we need you out here,” Thompson calls, his door still open, the AK resting in the crook of his shoulder. “Your ‘not friend’ can stay there.”

“You guys go ahead and regroup. Or whatever you want to call taking a piss in the bushes,” You say, smiling and adjusting your butt on the leather. You think you hear the brunet let out a sound close to a laugh. Or maybe there was something in his nose. “I think I’ll stay here with him.”

“I really think you should come out here.” His face is blank and it’s just the push you need to stay put with the brunet. You can feel the metal arm clenching and unclenching against you and it’s not helping your raising heartrate.

If you stepped out of this car you were 90% sure Thompson would finish the job the sniper couldn’t. The way he was holding the AK, like at any second he would need to raise and fire, was not conducive of a happy ending.

Instead of causing a scene, you take that 10% percent chance of survival and make your way out of the SUV. “Alright,” you exhale. “If you really need me to spectate.”

Your feet hit the dirt road and your eyes go to the gun, expecting the barrel to raise but it doesn’t. Thompson looks behind you and you hear the cock of a gun before you can see who’s loaded it.

Instinct highjacks your body and you duck, spinning around with your arm whipped out. Your fingers splay in hopes of contacting the gun but they hit coarse fabric instead. That’ll work.

You fist the drivers jacket and yank him down, your free hand snatches the underside of the barrel of his Glock 30. Your next move has to be quick; Or at least quicker than Thompson who was in the process of raising that damn AK.

Your pinky hits the release and the Glock’s magazine falls to the dirt. The driver tumbles forward unable to stop his fall with his hands busy trying to push you away. He torques your arm on the way down and the gunshot in your shoulder you’d somehow forgotten sears with a new anger.  

The second it takes you to recover is a second too long and bullets obliterate the dirt before you can reach for the magazine. You snap your arm back defensively.

“Don’t even think about it Y/N,” Thompson warns, the barrel of that fucking AK now pointed squarely at your nose.

With the Glock 30 still grasped firmly in your hand, you risk jerking it from the drivers fingers and hold it to his head, staring down the AK barrel the whole time. Thompson doesn’t shoot. Why doesn’t he shoot?

“You owe me for Austria.” You test the waters. Maybe he’s bluffing.

He laughs at your attempt to bargain. “I already cleared that debt back in the city. I don’t owe you shit.”

“It doesn’t count if you’re saving me from someone you hired!” you retort. The driver fidgets under your grip but you smash his face down into the dirt and press the Glock firmly to his ear till you feel the cartilage crinkle under pressure.

“I didn’t hire him. You’ve got no shortage of enemies Y/N, it shouldn’t be a surprise if someone else wants you dead.” He jerks the gun closer to your face. “Plus the boss man’s got a pretty penny resting on your head.”

The ‘boss man’ was the head of one of the organizations, affiliates of HYDRA, that liked to hire assassins like you and Thompson. Low profile and near 100% kill rate. If he had it out for you, there weren’t many places you could hide that he wouldn’t find. But that’s what you got for not having friends.

Before you can say a word, guns fire behind you and Thompson aims the AK over your head. As soon as his eyes leave yours you pull the trigger on the driver, blood warms your hand but you don’t have time to wipe it off.

You grab the dust covered magazine, pop it into the Glock, yank back the slide now slick with blood and feel the click of the bullet into the chamber. Its little red sight is trained on Thompson’s left eye before he can look back at you.

His head snaps back and his body collapses into a puff of dirt road. Your finger never touches the trigger.

You swing around coming up to your feet and face the shooter, Glock raised. Your eyes scan from the gun to the leather glove to the black sleeve of the brunets jacket. The two other passengers lay at his feet; a thin cloud of dust whispering around the outline of their bodies.

“Put the gun down so we can talk.”

You laugh at him. “You first.”

The shimmer of annoyance you’d seen before flashes across his face and his hands falter. When he doesn’t lower his weapon you offer, “Talk.”

“I just saved your ass twice. I think I’ve earned five minutes of your trust,” he says, not content with having a conversation with a gun in his face.

You don’t care what this man is about. You don’t want what he is selling.

But he had a point.

You slowly lower your gun, waiting for him to mirror, then flick the safety at the same time he does. With your guns at your sides and the adrenaline still coursing from the previous shots, you realize how remote this place is. Your peripherals take in everything they can without your focus leaving the brunet. All you see is field after field of varying shades of green.

“What do I have to say to make you come with me?” he asks. His metal fingers shift gently and they glint faintly in the sun.

“Nothing. I’m not going with you,” you state.

“The only way we get out of this country is together. I need your help just as much as you need mine.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m fine on my own.”

It’s his turn to laugh at you. “Yeah, you’re just fine.” He rolls his eyes so hard you think they’ll stick in the back of his skull. That takes practice. “If I leave you now you’ll pass out from that slug in your shoulder and be out long enough for the snipers in the city to find you.”

The aching numbness you hadn’t realized was spreading from your shoulder, started getting too strong to ignore. You wriggle your fingers and ball them into a fist. You’d be fine. You always were.

But it wouldn’t hurt to keep this muscle-y sharp shooter around till your arm started healing. Or until you wiped your name from the top of the ‘boss mans’ list. You sigh internally; that was going to put a serious damper on literally everything.

“Alright,” you assert, trying to sound big. “I just want to know one thing.”

His gloved hand adjusts its grip on the gun and the shifting pieces click lightly in the silence after your voice. “What?”

“In the city, you said these men knew you were coming for me. That’s why there were so many of them.” You pause to think and he stays silent while you do. He watches you closely, taking in every faint movement and expression change as you work through what you want to say. The way his sharp grey eyes study you cinches your throat and you struggle to speak. You have to force yourself to take a breath before continuing, “You were here looking for me. Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tucks the gun into the back of his waistband and flicks his jacket over it. “How much can I tell her?” he asks the people on his comm, his gloved hand presses lightly to his ear and his eyes stay locked with yours.

There’s a heavy moment in the air while you strain to pick up the mumbling on his comm that could just be your imagination. A small breeze tickles your cheeks and neck. You watch a few strands of his brunet hair wrap around the gloved hand still pressed to his ear.

His hand lowers and he finally speaks, “When your name landed at the top of HYDRA’s hit list you were labeled top priority. We were sent in to see if you were salvageable.” He winces at the last word, not liking the way it leaves his mouth.

Before you can question the use of that word he cuts you off.

“We’ll offer you protection and in exchange you work for us.”

“And who, pray tell, is ‘us’?” You cross your arms tightly across your chest, gun still in hand pointed towards the ground.

“SHEILD,” he answers, then quickly adds, “Or what’s left of it.”

“You mean to tell me that SHEILD, a company I’ve routinely screwed over, wants to help me?”

You were what SHEILD referred to as a pain-in-the-ass. You were a hitman that worked for subsidiaries of HYDRA affiliates. And they paid good money for an assassin like you. There was good money in being the bad guy. Or at least in killing for them.

“You have sensitive information on HYDRA and a 100% mission success rate. That means you’re good at what you do and you have leverage for good treatment. Treatment SHEILD wants to be the first to offer.”

The rumble of a car engine echoes in the distance and you both look towards the city. Clouds of dirt and gravel trail behind another black SUV as it hurtles from the pointed peaks of the buildings of Bremen.

You had about twenty minutes before they reached you.

You quickly ran through your current options. You could **a** , ditch this metal armed SHEILD agent and head for the hills with your fingers crossed and rely on your luck to save you, **b** , take the agent hostage and negotiate a steep price for his freedom, **or c** , go along with him and use his strength and skills to your advantage while working with the ‘good guys’.

With the amount of blood soaking your faux leather sleeves, plan **a** was looking like a pretty slim chance of making it. Plan **b** wasn’t looking too hot either given that you’d have to overpower this giant beefcake of a man with his metal arm against your injured one.

That left you plan **c**. The more you thought about it the more it made sense to you. Honestly, how bad could it be working for the good side? I mean, they were good guys. What’s the worst they could do?

You extend your good arm, closing the distance between the two of you. “You’ve got a deal, agent.”

He extends his gloved hand, but before he can wrap his fingers around yours you pull back. “Full immunity and protection in exchange for HYDRA secrets, right?”

There’s that eyeroll again. You wonder who’s made this man roll his eyes so aggressively so many times before you.

“We can talk about immunity.”

With the engine behind you getting louder, you decide that’s a good enough answer and lower your hand. He grips it quickly and tightly before you can change your mind. You feel the warmth of his hand leave yours cold in the breeze and follow him into the SUV.


	4. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a chance to talk with the brunet, revealing a tidbit of information about his identity he wasn't expecting you to pick up on.

“I still think we should have done something with their bodies.”

“We didn’t have time,” he says, his gloved hand clenches lightly around the stick shift between you two. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the remorseful type. Especially in your line of work.”

“You’re one to talk,” you utter before you can think.

The leather creaks around the stick shift as his grip tightens.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize HYDRA’s boogeyman?” you scoff. The second you saw him with that gun in his hand and the blank look after he’d shot Thompson, the speed he’d have needed to round the car and take out two men at once, you knew.

Part of the reason you’d chosen plan **c** was for that specific reason. There was zero chance you could have overpowered the Winter Soldier. Even on a good day he could tear you in half.

When he doesn’t say anything you continue, “I mean, I should thank you for the bump in business these last few years. I just assumed you were dead.” You watch a couple of kids throw a dirty red ball at each other in one of the fields. The taller one takes a hit to the face but he’s out of site before you can see his reaction. “What happened to you?”

His knee slams down and his foot bashes the break to the floor, his hand jerking the shift back and over to low gear. If you hadn’t been wearing your seatbelt you’d have been thrown through the windshield.

The belt presses into the gunshot on your shoulder and you hiss at the searing that had just started to dull.

“What the hell?!” you yell, gasping and trying to get the air back into your lungs. Each breath pushes your bad shoulder against the tightness of the belt so you settle for small controlled inhales.

You look over at him and your body goes cold. His gloved hand creaks and squeezes the steering wheel instead of the shift. His jaw clenches so hard the muscle protrudes enough to catch a sharp shadow in the fading light.

A dozen sarcastic remarks tickle your tongue but you keep your mouth shut. The tameness and calm that had been on his face before was completely gone. The bedtime stories of what the Winter Soldier would do if you crossed HYDRA start ringing in your head.

His softened features had made you forget. Now there was nothing soft about him. The metal arm that twitches around the steering wheel suddenly looks a lot less friendly. You briefly consider begging for your life.

His grey eyes hit yours but you don’t just see anger; there’s a speck of pain hiding in the blue ridges of his iris.

The attitude you’d adopted to help you shut out the world and everything in it was hard to shut off. It helped when you were on kill missions and created distance from objectives. You’d held onto that tough and indifferent façade long enough for its claws to latch on and never let go. And now its smooth conversational skills had just gotten you killed.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, sounding much smaller than you already felt sitting next to the tensing muscle of this huge man. Your eyes widen watching him, waiting for him to unclench his entire being but he doesn’t.

His eyes soften at your apology and probably your fear too. You weren’t expecting that and apparently neither was he. His eyebrows drop to a frown and he looks at the road.

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he asks, his voice low.

Your eyes lower when you see his shoulders relax. “I forgot what boundaries were when I started killing for money.” And they’re tense again. Good job, you should pat yourself on the back for that one.

You needed some sleep before you dug yourself a hole so deep you surfaced on another continent. Your head was light and you hadn’t slept since taking this mission. That was about three days ago.

He lets out a really big sigh and bows his head. His gloved hand grabs the shift and his knee bobs towards the clutch then the SUV is moving again.

You pull on the strap across your chest trying to fidget the affects of your words away but you stop when your hand slips across a wet spot. Damp warmth sops into the nylon of the seatbelt and smears across your fingertips.

Your eyes are burning and your lids are heavy when you hold up your hand into the last bit of sunlight. You don’t know why you do it. You already know its fresh blood from the bullet still lodged in your shoulder.

The ex-Winter Soldier eyes your hand then looks back to the road.

“Shit,” you breathe.

The heaviness in your lids spreads to your jaw and your neck and before you can stop it, your head is pulled down with the phantom weight. The darkness of the leather seat and your black jeans floods the rest of your vision and your body is falling forward too fast.

And no matter how hard you fight it you keep falling, spiraling forward head over heels. Your brain spins so fast it starts to numb and that numbness spreads and spreads and spreads until you can’t feel if you’re falling anymore.

Then a dull ache surfaces. It gnaws deep inside your shoulder. Chewing, biting, scratching until the dullness turns to a burn turns to a sharp dragging. It drags its way from the base of your shoulder to your neck and up to swirl around your head.

You use it to find your mouth and your eyes and when it spreads to your fingers you grasp at it’s base.

Your eyes flick open as a cold metal hand stops your arm from grabbing your shoulder. A wet calloused hand pushes against your mouth and you didn’t know you were groaning so loudly.

“Do I need to gag you?” he asks, pulling his hand away when you quiet. That sends a chill to your core. “I’ve almost got it.” He releases your arm.

The ex-Winter Soldier is crouched in front of you, blood glistening on his hand as he pulls it from your mouth.

“Got what?” you croak. Your throat is hoarse. How long were you groaning?

He looks at you then down to where his bloody hand goes back to your bare shoulder. His hands deftly grab the shining edge of bullet that protrudes from a dark pit in your flesh. Red seeps around his fingers and into the white fabric of your undershirt tank top.

The fire that traces the slugs path burns even after he’s holding it between the two of you. Red veins snake around the fragmented metal and drip into your lap.

“Do you want to keep it?”

“What? Why would I want to keep it,” you sigh groggily, still trying to get your senses back. He chuckles to himself and tosses the bullet into the weeds behind the tree. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and it almost hurts your chest to see it. How could someone who was forced to kill so many people still smile so beautifully.

The sun had completely set. The only lights were the high beams on the SUV trained on you and the tree you were leaning against.

He picks up a pair of knives that had been resting on your thigh and wipes them on a wadded up piece of dark fabric. His bare fingers brush against your leg and you feel it through the jeans.

“I’ll grab some bandages. Stay put.” The knives clink together as he puts back somewhere; he steps from the headlights before you can see where.

You nod, then wince as it tugs at your shoulder, and watch him stand and stride to the SUV. The foggy feeling nudges you but you push it away concentrating on the hole in your shoulder using the pain to keep you conscious.

He’s back a minute later. He tears apart some gauze and packs the wound. You wince anticipating rough hands but he’s gentle. His fingers work quick to not draw out the pain.

You watch his face as he works, taking in every little wrinkle and faded scar.  From his dark brow to the slope of his nose down to the soft red of his lips. There’s kindness and care in his smokey eyes as he places the bandage over the packed gauze.

HYDRA fucked with his head even more than they fucked with yours. You wonder, since there’s still softness in his eyes, if there was any kindness left in yours.

He rips pieces of tape and secures the square patch of bandage, smoothing out the edges with soft touches. The feel of warm skin against yours touches a spot deep at your core you were forced to hide away. You’d almost forgotten it was there.

“Thank you.” You barely hear yourself. Another smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.

He stands and holds his right arm out to you. You push against the tree and shimmy your way up. As much as this hurts and as much you want to feel his hand wrap around yours, you don’t want to risk anything.

What would you be risking? You don’t care. It’s not worth it. Whatever this feeling is it’s not worth it.

You can see him strain against rolling his eyes at your stubbornness. Instead he turns toward the SUV once you’re on your feet. “We’ve got about 80 miles to the border of Netherlands.” He opens his door and gets in.

You walk to the passenger side and do the same, pulling the door closed and clicking your blood stained seatbelt. Only there’s no blood. He must have cleaned it.

“We’ll take back roads to be safe. That should put us at the border in just under two hours. That’ll give us plenty of time.” he informs, twisting the key in the ignition waiting for the engine to turn.

The headlights fade as the engine grumbles but nothing happens. He pauses before turning it again but the lights just get more dim. The next time he turns the key, the engine barely sputters then the headlights fade leaving the two of you in complete darkness.


	5. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the car battery dead, the two of you have to walk the rest of the way to the border of the Netherlands. When your shoulder and exhaustion slows the both of you down, the ex-Winter Soldier suggest you find an Inn to rest, at least until dawn.

You sit in silence for a moment, not entirely sure how to react. You have half a mind to blame him for leaving the lights on but you stay quiet. He used them to mend your arm and you couldn’t blame him for that. There wasn’t much of an alternative being so far out away from the city. 

“I guess we’re walking. . .” he breathes. It sounds like he’s trying to keep calm despite the odds steadily stacking against the two of you.

“What about the car that followed us from the city? If we wait long enough we could ambush them,” you suggest, rubbing your hand against the door trying to find the handle without light. It’s not where you remember it being.

“How do you think I got this car?” The moonlight is enough to give you an outline of his broad shoulders as he shuts the door on his way out of the ‘new’ SUV. You think you see them shake but you can’t tell if it’s the breeze or a chuckle. “You didn’t even notice did you?”

You hop out of the car and round it to stand by him on the road. “Give me a break,” you smirk. “I’m still in shock and suffering major blood loss.”

You turn to look at him hoping for a smile but he’s looking down the road at something else.

“I was kind of surprised you didn’t wake up through the whole thing. Your window was smashed and you didn’t even flinch. There’s still glass in your hair.”

You run your fingers over your scalp shaking the hair and feeling a few pieces loosen and click against the gravel. “Again,” you say. “Major blood loss. How many were in the car?”

“Just two,” he answers. “Not organized. Just after the money.” He starts walking down the road. You can hear the loose stone crunching under his weight and the tread of his boots. You fall in step behind him following his moonlit silhouette and decide not to ask about the bodies.

“So why can’t your friends just give us a ride?”

He’s silent for a moment before taking his comm piece out and slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “HYDRA had hijacked the border before they could cross.”

“How’d you make it in, then?” Every step jostles the muscle and healing flesh in your shoulder. You hold it against your chest and clench your fist a few times testing the numbness. It’s still there.

“I was already here for recon. It was my job to find you and send your location back to them. When that changed I had to grab you myself before anyone else got to you. And while I still had contact with my team.”

“What do you mean? Weren’t you talking with them earlier?” You do your best to keep up with his steps but his strides are twice the size of yours.

“When they locked the country down, we had four hours of contact left and that ended about. . .” he looks up into the sky, thinking for a moment. “Three hours ago.”

“So HYDRA cut all comms and closed all borders just to get to me?” You knew you were good but you’d never thought you’d been that good. For them to highjack border patrol and jam comms meant you were a high stakes player. Your pride swells a tiny bit at the thought.

“No. It was to keep us from getting to you.”

Oh. Well, it was still flattering. That SHIELD would send a team in to get you was still pretty great.

The two of you don’t say much for a few hours. No cars pass you on the dirt road and the only lights are the ones in the windows of the farmhouses. Soon the fields turn into forest with long drives leading to small cottages. Almost every one has a cute sign decorated with their last names and garnished with color or fancy swirling script.

“What’s your name?” you ask, examining one of the wooden signs as you stride past it.

“What?” He sounds distracted, like he was deep in thought before you spoke.  

“What’s your real name? I mean, unless you want me to call you Winter Soldier, which I’m totally cool with.”

“No that’s. . . Don’t do that.”

Your eyes having adjusted to the subtle moonlight, you see him frown and grimace at the title.

“So what’s your name?”

“Bucky.”

It’s your turn to frown. “That’s a nickname isn’t it? I’m talking about your real full name.”

You take a few steps in silence as he ways the pros and cons of telling you his full name. You’re about to tell him to forget it when he answers;

“James Barnes,” he asserts. His jaw tightens as he says the name with pride, like this is the first time he’s been able to say it out loud. Like he’s staking claim to it and owning it as his and only his.

You smirk. “Where the hell do you get Bucky from that?”

“My middle name.”

“Your middle name is Bucky?” You laugh, not bothering to mask it. It jars your shoulder a bit and you wince.

He rolls his eyes at the stars and takes a deep breath. “No. It’s Buchanan.” He glances over at you. “Are you being an ass on purpose? Or are you still delirious?”

You laugh a little harder but the energy it takes bends you over. You brace yourself against your knees and try to take some breaths to calm yourself before you pass out.

When your pace becomes so slow he almost leaves you behind, he stops.

“It looks like there’s an Inn or something just up the way. You need to recover as much as you can before we reach the Netherlands.”

You nod in agreement. You could go for a hot shower and a soft bed. Even if it was only for a few hours.

“Do you have any money?” he asks as you walk up the path past the car lot. You nod, digging in your pocket and pulling out a couple of coins and some lightly crinkled notes. He does the same as you walk up to the warmly lit entrance.

There’s a large forest green emblem with “Backenköhler Landidyll Hotel” wrapping around it embossed in the French windows surrounding the front door. Bucky grabs the brass handle of the matching green doors and ushers you inside.

He smiles and charms his way up to the front desk while you stand in the entryway and look around. It’s warm and well lit and there aren’t any cameras that you can see. Light red curtains frame the windows and fake candles decorate almost very surface. You hear his deep voice behind you and look over your shoulder.

He’s leaning against the brown marble desk separating him and the small blonde haired receptionist. She looks up at him in awe as he talks and giggles at him while listing the rooming options.

You can’t hear what he’s saying but it can’t be as funny as she’s making it seem. He counts out some notes and coins and places them in her outstretched hand. One of the coins clatters in front of her and she giggles again bending down to pick it up. The top button of her white uniform is undone and she’s not wearing anything underneath except a lacey plum bra.

But Bucky isn’t paying attention to her. He’s looking over at you and the shoulder you cradle gently in your good arm. She clears her throat and he turns back to her with a smile. She hands him a key and points towards the rooms. He takes it from her and her too-bright smile follows him even after he turns around.

“What’s the verdict, Barnes?” You ask low enough so the woman can’t hear if you’re speaking German or English. “We get the honeymoon suite?”

There’s that eye roll you were starting to grow a bit fond of. He takes a deep breath, looking anywhere but your eyes for a moment. If you could read his thoughts, it’d probably just be a repeating prayer for the strength not to strangle you right there.

Once you’re back outside he leads you to the rooms. “I got us a double bed room.”

“Double, like the size?” You ask, your heart jumping a few times in your chest. You have to keep yourself from frowning at the unwelcomed jolt.

“Double, like another word for couple, or two.” He slides the key into the door and clicks it open, turning the knob and holding it for you.

You walk into the room, look around, and laugh. You’re not sure if it’s the irony of it all or your nerves as you remark, “You sure about that?”

You look back at him as he narrows his eyes at you before stepping into the red carpeted room. You watch his face as he scans the suite, landing on the beds tucked against the right wall.

There were two of them alright; two mattresses at least. But they were connected at the baseboard and if you weren’t paying attention you’d think they were one bed.

You smirk up at him. “You want the right side or the left?”


	6. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finding out your room only has one bed, Bucky decides to keep watch instead of sleeping. You wake up in the middle of the night to find he's not lounging in the chair anymore. After a moment of anger and panic, you realize he's slumped onto the bed next to you. But he's not asleep; every muscle in his body is tense and shaking.

He doesn’t answer you. It looks like he’s still trying to process what the woman had told him at the desk and what was in front of him right then.

You eye an open door leading to a small room where the red carpet turns to white tile.  Praise the Lord it’s a shower. “While you decide where you’re going to sleep I’m taking a shower.” 

You try to gently start taking off your leather jacket but get stuck with it halfway off your good arm. It pulls at your bandages and you can’t seem to angle it in any way that doesn’t send a hot wave of pain down to your fingertips.

Before you can struggle much more, Bucky pulls the sleeve the rest of the way down your good arm and softly slides it from your other without a problem.

“Thanks.”

He nods and you walk to the bathroom. You see him carefully fold your torn jacket and place it on the nightstand before closing and locking the door to the bathroom. Hopefully he isn’t planning on showering because, as you look at the small glass enclosing the showerhead, you realize there’s no way his shoulders would even fit through the door.

You remove your shirt slowly and carefully avoiding your damaged shoulder. Once you’re in the shower you laugh quietly to yourself imagining Bucky struggling not to smash the glass that surrounds you. Even if he hugged his arms against his chest there’d be no way. One wrong move with that metal appendage and it’d be game over.

You step out 20 minutes later with a clean body but dirty clothes. Bucky’s lounging in a chair looking through the hotel brochure. He’s pulled it in front of the bed and in the way of the door. Whether it’s so he can put his feet on the foot of the bed or to block the entrance you can only guess 

“You decide which side you want?”

He looks up from the brochure and watches you set your shoes and socks on the ground.

“You can sleep. I’ll keep watch on the door. And make sure you don’t oversleep. We have to make it to the border by tomorrow afternoon are we might miss our window.”

You take a seat on the left side of the bed and slip your socks on then tie your shoes before wrapping yourself up under the sheets.

He frowns at the rough shape your shoes make against the cotton. “You’re sleeping with your shoes on?”

“Well yeah. What if we have to run? I’m not about to get caught because I had to take two minutes to put them back on.”

He scrunches his nose at you over the brochure then looks back down turning a page.

You roll onto your side to elevate your shoulder and bury your face in the pillow. For a second you wonder if you’ll be able to fall asleep with the lights still on but the moment you close your eyes you’re done for.

When you open them again the room is dark. The only light you can see is coming through the window on the far wall opposite you and the door to the outside. The window is open and the thin red curtains are swaying gently.

You look to the chair Barnes had been sitting in before you’d fallen asleep and he isn’t there. The hotel brochure is folded up and resting on the white cushion. You fight the panic that rises in your chest at the thought that he might have left you for dead. You’re upright tearing the sheets from your body but the pain in your shoulder makes you pause. Deep breaths.

You pause again looking at your feet and wiggle your toes. The faint outline of your feet shifts the sheet in the moonlight seeping through the window. Your shoes are gone.

That son of bitch stole your shoes and made off with them like a literal thief in the night. You swing your feet over the edge of the bed and launch yourself up stumbling over something on the ground. A few seconds and a good squint is all it takes for you to make out the shape of your black boots tucked nicely against the bedframe.

A body shifts in the sheets you’ve just thrown and your eyes shoot to the large form on the other side of the bed. Bucky’s dark hair is splayed against the pillow and his red Henley strains against his broad shoulders and muscular back. He faces the wall so you can’t tell if you’ve woken him but his shoulders rise and fall in a sleepy rhythm. You can see the corner of one of the extra pillows poking out from underneath his arm as he holds it tightly against his chest.

Guilt tickles your heart as you wrongly assumed he’d leave you alone with an injured shoulder and no shoes.

You laugh to yourself. So much for him keeping watch. The clock’s red numbers declare the time as 3am. You’d been asleep for two hours.

You climb gently back into the bed trying your best not to shift the bedframe and wake him. You’ve just slipped your stocking feet under the covers when you catch a quick movement beside you. 

Bucky’s tensed his body so tightly his bicep starts shaking.

You’re about to apologize for waking him when his breathing goes ragged. Small beads of sweat swell and trickle down his exposed neck but the breeze from the window chills your back. A heartbeat rages in your ears and you’re not sure if it’s his or yours.

His shoulders are twitching and you watch as every muscle in his back ripples to life. Before you can do anything a coarse yell tears from his throat and he’s thrashing against the bed. His metal arm swings against the plaster walls and sends flecks and chunks of it across the sheets and carpet.

“Barnes!” You hiss after he goes silent, still jabbing his elbows into the mattress. His eyes are squeezed shut and his teeth grind together, his whole face is contorted in pure agony like the wailing souls in Dante’s Inferno.

You want to reach out and touch him but if he swings at you, you wouldn’t be strong enough to block it.

If he lets out another yell in this night terror you’d risk drawing attention. But the look on his face sends an ache to your heart.

“Oh fuck it,” you grimace as you grip his shoulder pulling him all the way over. “Barnes!”

He doesn’t respond, just continues thrashing and grinding his teeth.

“Barnes! Wake the fuck up! It’s just a nightmare!” You shake his warm shoulder gently at first but harder when he doesn’t react. You know it’s almost impossible to pull someone from a night terror but you’d be damned if you didn’t try.

“Bucky!”

His eyes shoot open and he’s on top of you in a second. That speed you’d heard he had doesn’t come close to what you just saw. Your left shoulder is pinned and his metal arm rears back.

Stay calm. 

With only your injured shoulder to use you get ready to redirect the blow.

Stay calm.

You right leg is free but his knee is too high between your legs for you to use it. The hard muscle of his thigh presses painfully against your crotch.

Stay calm.

The metal glints on its way down and you howl against the pain as your arm rises to meet it. The metal slides against the outside of your arm and you push as hard and fast as you can against it but it’s like trying to move a boulder barreling at you.

You can’t redirect the blow. Instead you manage to shove against his force and slide your head from his path. The baseboard snaps and sends you both down a few inches jostling his knee from your crotch and giving you enough room to plant your heel on his abs and kick the air from his lungs. But his muscles are so tense barely a breath of air is pushed from his lips.

His grip on your left arm doesn’t break and the blank look on his face twitches to anger. His metal hand balls into a fist around a handful of your hair

“Barnes I swear to god if you pull my hair I’ll break your face!”

But Bucky isn’t there. His grey eyes are empty. They aren’t hard or soft or kind or cruel they’re just empty.

He flicks his wrist around, wrapping your hair tightly in his grip so his metal knuckles bite against your scalp and pulls you up.

Stay calm.

Yelling won’t wake him up, if this is even a night terror. It could be anything with the amount of zapping and prodding they did to his brain.

“Bucky wake up,” you gasp against the sting of his hold. You touch the cool metal of his left wrist.

You can already feel the bruise forming under the grip of his flesh hand. Your fingers slip from the ridges on his metal wrist to the soft fabric of the Henley covering his bicep. Still metal. A little further and the cool turns hot at the base of his neck.

The scruff of his throat scratches the pads of your fingertips as you move your hand to his jaw. It tenses under your touch. He blinks rapidly for a second and you think you see something in his eyes again but it’s gone before you can tell what it is.

“Bucky come on. You gotta wake up.” Your chest tightens at the warmth of his face.

His anger changes to pain and the hand wrapped in your hair loosens and you fall back to the broken bed. Your arm slips from the bruising grip of his right hand and you push yourself up. He’s not looking at you. You’re not even sure he knows you’re there anymore.

You grab both his shoulders squaring yourself with him and whisper something you tell yourself after every nightmare.

“You’re safe Bucky. They can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”

The ache of memory and past nightmares starts growing in your chest. All the emptiness you see in his eyes is reflected in the pit of your heart. You’d never had a terror this intense, but you’d had enough nightmares and seen enough anxiety attacks to understand the need for human touch.

A faint memory of holding your shaking sister as she cried and shook for air surfaces for a second before fading in the dark of the room.

You lean in closer slow enough to give you time to react if he snapped back into that empty mind. You can feel his breath against the exposed skin of your neckline and it sends chills down your back. His head is still lowered staring into nothing.

The less distance there is between you two the faster your heart races. You’ve never been this close to someone who didn’t want to kill you.

Your hands slide from his shoulders to the tense muscles of his traps. His breath is on your neck now but he still doesn’t move. If he wanted to kill you now, you wouldn’t be able to stop him.

You move closer pressing your shoulders against his and wrapping your arms completely around him. His breath hitches and you force yourself not to tense up at the pain in your shoulder or his sudden movement. You aren’t afraid of him because you know now what he can do. You’ve only ever been afraid of what you didn’t know.

Your brain walks you through every possible outcome each one ending with the killing blow from that metal arm but you just hold onto him trying to pull him back to earth.

The longer you hold onto him the more you feel how deep that pit in your heart has grown. You can feel how long it’s been since you’ve touched another living human being without the intent to kill.

His warm heavy hand ghosts across your lower back before gently settling against it; his fingers spread wide enough to take up the whole left side.

“You’re safe,” you whisper again.

His other hand cools your skin through the thin tank top on the other side of your back.

“You’re free,” you voice drops even lower hiding the jealousy in your words. Your eyes burn and you fight against the tears. You thought they’d beat every last one from you.

His hands glide up your back, the warmth first and then the cold, pulling you against him. The tighter he holds you the less you feel the pit in your chest until you’re holding onto him so hard it’s not for his comfort anymore. It’s for yours.


	7. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bucky's night terror, the reader decides to open up and share a little bit of her past. But not for the reason you'd think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter has a lot of backstory for the reader. I couldn't put them together without Bucky knowing why she started and continued to kill people. He's a precious cinnamon roll and I can't see him ending up with a killer who's got no conscience. If you want, you can read the first little part and then the end because I've separated the backstory from the story. The backstory is chunked in the middle between the **asterisks**. I know I'm the writer and I do what I want, but I just couldn't do it. Okay I'm done. Enjoy!)

He’s let you go but he doesn’t move away. He’s holding his head instead and rubbing his temples.

You crawl from the bed and grab him a glass of water from the bathroom. Dark red catches your eye in the mirror as you fill the cup. Fresh blood seeps through your bandage but you don’t worry about it right now.

You touch his shoulder gently and hold out the water. He doesn’t look you in the eyes just looks to the water and takes it in his warm hand then downs half in one gulp.

“Is this why you didn’t want to go to sleep?” You ask, sitting back down on the broken bed and leaning against the headboard. He still won’t look at you.

“I didn’t want to-” he starts but his voice cracks with dryness. He sips the water. “I didn’t want to hurt you or accidentally _kill_ you.” He struggles with the word ‘kill’ like it’s thick on his tongue and doesn’t want to come out. He downs the rest of the water like a shot of vodka.

“It’s not like I don’t have it coming. I’ve killed enough people it’d probably be karma,” you laugh, trying to lighten the dark mood but his jaw clenches. You’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

His hands go back to his temples and the glass falls to the soft sheets. You can almost see the weight of everything he’s been through pushing his shoulders down; everything he’s done piled as high as the bodies HYDRA made him kill.

You don’t have to ask him if he blames himself. The evidence is written all over his face; the way his brows knit together, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, his clenched jaw, his grinding teeth, his tense shoulders, and his shallow breathing. You could list every little movement of his body but you’d never finish.

You’ve seen it all before when you look in the mirror.

“At least you know you didn’t have a choice.”

His jaw unclenches and his eyes look up at you but you’re not looking at him anymore.

You take a deep breath, watching the last few drops of water leak from the cup and soak into the sheets. When your imagination turns the water crimson you close your eyes. When you open them again it’s just water.

“I mean,” you start, unable to pull the words from your throat. “People like me wish they could blame someone for the things they’ve done. But at the end of the day, I’ve got no one to blame except myself.”

You look to your hands you didn’t know had clenched. “I pulled the trigger. No one made me do it. No brainwashing or conditioning. They didn’t hold a gun to my head.” You have to stop when every face you’d stolen the life from flashes in your head. 

You hold your arms across your chest. You feel like you’re stripping in front of him. Pulling layer after layer of clothing until you’re bare and vulnerable. The blood that dripped from the bandage and soaked your shirt sticks to your arm.

He takes a breath like he wants to say something but the silence makes you finally look at him. Where you expected to see nauseating pity, you see something else. It almost looks like he’s relieved that you’ve decided to show some humanity.  Like he’s reassured he made the right choice in saving you.

“As much as you show off and pretend you don’t give a shit, you aren’t that cold,” he begins earnestly. 

You laugh at him, starting to pull the walls back up. “You don’t know me.”

“No I don’t. But I do know HYRDA. And I know they thrive on leverage. Maybe you don’t have a gun to your head now, but I’m willing to bet that wasn’t the case when you started.”

It’s your turn to clench your jaw. Your mind wants to tell him, wants him to understand but your body is fighting it. Your teeth are crunching so hard against each other you couldn’t have spoken if you wanted to.

He watches you struggle between speaking and silence. He’s patient but his eyes are almost pleading. He wants you to tell him. He wants to understand.

Does he? Does he really care what you’ve been through? Why should he care what made you do what you do. If he was looking for a kindred soul he wasn’t going to find it with you. Everything you did you did of your own free will. He didn’t.

So you tell him. To set him straight. He thinks you’re not cold? You’ll show him how wrong he is.

**

You breathe, breaking the seal of your grinding teeth. “I was a little shit as a kid. I always got into trouble. And I had a little sister who was the complete opposite. She was a damn angel who never did anything wrong. When our parents died and we were thrown into the system, she was the one to get adopted.” 

As you spoke you could see her sweet plump face smiling and feel her thin arms hugging you goodbye. She was the only family you could remember having and you didn’t want to let her go. The sharp disapproving glares of her new parents still held their sting so many years later. They despised you and even as a kid you could pick up on it.

“I knew the only way I was going to get out of that place was if I aged out. So when these nice people dressed in suits said they’d feed me and train me to protect myself I didn’t think twice. My grades always sucked and I hated school. So I thought to myself,” you run your fingers over your palms before continuing. “I thought that, if I was going to end up on the streets, I may as well learn a thing or two from these people. Learn how to protect myself. And they didn’t make me go to school so I thought it was a dream come true.

“And then training became more than just protecting myself. It was about causing as much damage to my opponent as possible. And I never lost a sparring match. So they graduated me to guns. ‘You’ll need to know how to use them,’ they’d told me. They’d said, ‘for protection this is something you need to know.’”

Your thumbs ghosts over the scar on your trigger fingers where the skin had torn away. “I’d trained until I physically couldn’t pull that damn trigger. And they praised me for it. They praised me until the only thing I wanted to do was make them happy. When they sent me on my first assignment I aced it. So they sent me on another and another and another. Just simple extraction or infiltration. Nothing dangerous. Until it was.

“I felt like such a failure when I couldn’t kill the first person they told me to, but no matter what they said I wouldn’t do it. I was still a damn kid.” You squeeze your hands so tightly the nails dig into the flesh and sear with the wound in your shoulder.

“So they bring me to this room. They say they have something to ‘motivate’ me. When they open the door my sister is tied to a damn chair and she’s bleeding. But the second she sees me she smiles. Before I can go to her they close the door in my face. If I do what they tell me I can see her. I pull the trigger without a second thought.” Your eyes close and all you think about is her bubbly smile and feeling her skinny arms in a tight hug

“I’m sitting outside the door waiting for them to let me in and when they do, I’m at her side before she can see me. And two minutes later they’re dragging me from the room.”

You stretch and roll your shoulders realizing how stiff and tense they’d become. The bandage pulls and you fight the wince of pain.

You look up at Bucky who’s concentrating on your hands, zoning out and listening to you speak. You think maybe he’s trying to put himself in your shoes.

Good.

“It went like that for about a month until they stopped letting me see her. They gave me threats instead of visitation. Saying they’d hurt her if I didn’t do what I was supposed to. It took me five fucking years to figure out she’d been dead the moment they wouldn’t let me see her. And deep down I knew that. I knew the people I was working for and I’d seen their empty promises before. But I pretended until the truth was punching me over and over in the face, beating me into submission and making me accept it.”

**

He looks up at you and you scan his face for the disgust you want him to have. You want him to hate you just like everyone else. When his eyes hit yours the only thing you see is sympathy.

“No one made me pull the trigger. No one held a gun to my head,” you finish, waiting for the sympathy to change but it doesn’t. And it makes your chest tight with anger.

“They didn’t need a gun.”

“I kept killing for them even after I knew she was dead. I could have stopped.”

“They would have found a new pressure point.”

Your nails bite harder against your palms until warmth trickles through the cracks and wrinkles of your skin. The look on his face doesn’t change. When you stay silent, letting the blood soak into the bed, it shifts to annoyance. His lips purse slightly and the muscle in his jaw catches a shadow as it tenses.

“You want me to say you’re a cold heartless bitch? Okay. You’re a cold heartless bitch.”

 _Fucking finally,_ you think to yourself. Until he keeps talking.

“But you did what you did because it was the best you could do in the situation you were given.”

“I could have run,” you offer, grasping at straws.

“They would have found you. And you know it. You want a way out and I’m giving it to you on a damn silver platter.”

Your anger subsides. The genuine sympathy and want for you to get out is written all over his rough and perfect face. He’s been where you are.

“Like you said before. I didn’t have a choice but you do.”

Your hands grip the front of his soft red shirt and you pause, looking for the sympathy in his eyes. The pain and hurt that beat you both down and molded you into killers. And you find it.

You wait for him to push you away and break your hold on his chest but he doesn’t move. He looks at you like he’s expecting you to shake him until he sees your side.

Part of you is very close to doing that, but the other is tired. It’s tired of shoving people away. It’s tired of being alone and letting the emptiness swell and thrive.

Instead of shaking, your arms pull yourself up to him and press your lips against his. He’s warm and soft and you can’t remember the last time you felt anything this good and then he’s gone. His hands grab your shoulders and push you back.

“You don’t want to do that Y/N,” He breathes, his hands keeping you firmly in place.

There’s a pang in your chest at his rejection but you don’t let him see. Instead of lowering your head you keep your eyes locked on his. And then you see it. You see the fear in the ridges of his iris, the pain and apprehensiveness in the widening of his pupils.

He’s just like you. He’s afraid if you get too close you’ll see the ugliness underneath.

“Let me make my own damn choices, Barnes,” You push back.

His hands don’t resist when you lean in again. You mold your mouth to his, closing the space between your chests. This time he kisses back and the breath is torn from your lungs but you don’t want him to stop.


	8. Loner in Bremen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long it took me to update this chapter. I hope it was worth your wait! I promise to be more diligent on updating this one. Especially since it's nearing the end. Please enjoy!

Your hands glide to his soft brunet hair and hold him closer. You want him closer.

He tastes like a splash of sweat and mojito without the rum. A bittersweet mint that needs more sugar and less salt.

He groans against your lips as your fingers weave through his hair. It sends a shiver to your core and you want him to make that sound again.

Bucky pulls back for a second and you both take a few breaths before he leans back into you. The heaviness off his chest and ferocity of his kiss pushes you down against the mattress. The scruff of his chin scratches yours but his lips are so soft you don’t care.

You gasp as your head hits the pillow and he slips his tongue against yours. The mint overwhelms the sweat salt and you can’t get enough of his taste. His warm hand glides under your back and arches it to him.

“Fuck,” You breathe as he pulls away again. He’s back before you can inhale. Placing open mouth kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck. His hair brushes against your nose and its scent wisps with it. Something like sharp gunpowder and two-day old shampoo; a stereotypical oaky man-brand.

Your body heats up at his touch. His hand pushing against the arch of your back. His tongue and lips tracing the skin of your throat. His strong thigh pushing your legs apart. The cool metal of his other hand sliding up to your hip.

Every move he makes against you shoots to that spot below your stomach. It’s heating up and squeezing tight against that pit. That empty part his touch had made you forget.

The hand on your back follows the curve of your spine to the top of your jeans. His warm fingers slip under the fabric and ghost against your skin.

You force yourself not to jump when the cool metal of his other hand dips under the fabric at your hip, pulling the shirt up a few inches. If he hadn’t been so hot and so close, the breeze that drags across your stomach would have given you chills.

You wonder how warm his skin would feel against yours. You don’t want anything between you two. If he was just a little bit closer that pit would disappear.

You tug at a handful of hair relishing in his groan as it vibrates against your collarbone. Then you tuck your arms in the small space between your bodies and grab the base of his soft red shirt, yanking it up his waist.

His mouth stops moving against your skin and his breath is hot as he breathes against your neck.

You pull the shirt higher and his hands stop too. There’s a moment where both of you pause; Bucky not moving his arms to slip the shirt off and you waiting for his body to break from its stiffness.

You wonder if the damage that the metal replaced reached farther than just his arm. Is he hiding it from you?  Not that you had a right to see what he didn’t want you to.

A second later and he’s leaning back, taking the hem of his shirt from your hands and slipping it over his head. As soon as the fabric clears his head, you’re sitting upright with your fingers tracing the hard ridges of his stomach.

Your eyes raise as slowly as your hands, taking their time as they memorized the feeling of having another person so close and vulnerable. Then your fingertips brush against the torn and puffy scar tissue that branches into metal at his shoulder.

Your hands rise and fall with the almost frantic rhythm of his chest. He’s not looking at you.

So you grab a good handful of his hair with your bad arm and shove his shoulder down with your other. Your leg slips from between his and wraps around to straddle his hips as he hits the bed.

He’s looking at you now, his eyes wide and pupils lust-blown.

His abs flex as he leans up towards you and you meet his mouth in a minty kiss all lips and tongue. His hands are on your thighs now slowly sliding up to your hips.

Each movement of his jaw pushes against you and you push back. It’s a fight for dominance you know he’ll win but for now you’re on top.

Your heart races even faster and you just want more of him; more of his taste, his smell, his touch.  But he pulls back too soon again.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” He asks, his voice so deep and raspy you can feel it in your chest.

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” you mumble, squeezing your thighs tighter and leaning back into him.

He dodges your kiss and his lips graze your chin to the spot below your ear. His breath sends a chill to your spine and every other damn part of your body.

“Just say it. Please just say it out loud I need to hear it.”

You give the handful of his hair a little squeeze and a shot of pain cuts the muscle, but the groan it elicits against your ear is worth it.

“Yes James, fuck yes I want this,” you whisper against the scruff of his cheek.

You cup his face in your hands and he grips your hips tighter grinding against you. You moan into him, ducking your head against his neck as sparks shoot from that sensitive bead of nerves. His skin smells like sweat and faint woodsy evergreens.

A brief image of him in the small glass shower with steam misting around him and water splashing his skin makes you squirm against his hips and chest.

You need more friction and more of his touch. The almost uncomfortable, coiled, and breathtaking feeling that’s building needs more of him.

Bucky grabs at your tank top but before he can clear your ribs, heavy booted feet clamber down the stone walk of the hall. Your hand leaves his body and grabs the glass cup as the door smashes open.

Splinters fly across the rug. Bucky grips your hips even tighter and throws you down into the bed shielding you against the wood.

The first heavily armed man lunges into the light and you whip the glass at his face. It shatters against his helmet and cuts into his eyes. Stray pieces fall to the floor with the settling door slivers.

The guy wails and falls backwards through the door frame, flailing his arms and waving the assault rifle in his hand as he goes.

Bucky’s off the bed before you’ve even sat up after he damn near body slammed you into the mattress. He rips the gun from the guy's hands and gut-kicks him into the next man stepping into view.

“Window! Now!” He yells, jamming the butt of the gun against his shoulder and shooting the next face that emerges.

“Got it!” You jump from the bed, snag your shoes and his shirt that happened to be draped across them, and head for the window.

You stop to make sure these men weren’t smart enough to cover all exits. You don’t see anything in the moonlight except dew covered grass and waving trees.

More gunfire behind you and you’re about to jump but Bucky beats you to it. He shoves you through the window and you tumble to your hand and bare feet, your shoes tucked against your wounded shoulder.

“How many are there?” you ask, taking off from your involuntary sprinters pose. Bucky barely has to stride to catch up to you.

“Three down in the bedroom. They’re official. We’re not dealing with the riffraff anymore.”

The two of you make it to a semi-wooded area and pause.

“Riffraff?”

He looks at you with a small shake of his head frowning in confusion.

“God, how old are you?” You shake your head and look around as you catch your breath. If you’d had a grandmother you’re positive ‘riffraff’ is something she’d say.

The woods aren’t too thick. There are just enough trees to make it hard to see through; branches and foliage hang at eye level.

“We need to get to a car. If they’ve brought in the actual police we have a lot less time than I thought,” he speaks quietly and close to you. He’s really close to you.

You can feel the heat from his bare chest radiating against the chilled skin of your arm. The woodsy evergreen smell of his skin is stronger but that could just be the trees.

He catches you studying him and the beads of sweat and water from the heavy air on his shoulders and chest. The muscle is tense and defined and twitches when he grabs his shirt from your hands.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yup,” you answer, still appreciating every ripple of muscle and scar until the red fabric slips back over. “Something about a car, right?”

A heavy sigh draws your eyes to his face. Just in time for the eye roll. “Those weren’t contract killers, they were deputized officers. We need to get a car and get to the border before more of them show up.”

“So we’re wanted by the law now too. That’s great. My perfect record is tarnished.” You lean against the trunk of the closest tree and struggle with your shoes. When you manage to get them on, Bucky ties the one boot while you tie the other.

First he body slams you into a bed, then he ties your boot for you. What a gentleman.

When you give him a look like, _what the fuck are you doing_ , he just shrugs. “You’re taking too long,” he says. “We need to go.”


	9. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky make your move at the Border of the Netherlands. When you arrive you're greeted by a line of black SUV's.

Sitting in the newly high jacked car it was completely silent.  You wouldn’t call it an awkward silence but it certainly wasn’t comfortable.

Every couple of minutes you’d think you could see him looking at you, but when you glanced at him, his eyes were on the road. You took those moments to watch the muscles of his right arm shift under his shirt. Every curve in the road drew your eyes to a new movement under the red fabric.

“If law enforcement is already on our tail, they probably know where we’re headed,” You state, finally breaking the quiet.

His fingers clench the steering wheel a little tighter but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are squinting and the wrinkles on his forehead dig deep.

“Which means we should be prepared for a firefight on our way out.”  You look to the backseat where the assault rifle Bucky had stolen jostles on the rough road.

You had three guns between the two of you. Two Glocks and the rifle. Partially used clips in the Glocks and a basically new mag in the rifle. Which sounds like a lot but wouldn’t last against fully armed and suited soldiers. Even in the hands of two experienced gunmen, it was pushing it.

The car slows as the small lights of a town rise above the trees. There’s about ten black vehicles parked alongside the road. It wouldn’t have been weird if they weren’t all identical makes and models.

Bucky pulls the car over in a small grouping of trees and shoves the shift into park. His metal hand joins his right on the steering wheel while both of you stare at the border. There were a couple of lanes of traffic you needed to cross but there weren’t any cars going either way.

You could follow the line of trees only so far before you’d be out in the open. Even if you did make the border there would be no guarantee they wouldn’t try to shoot you after you crossed. It would take a good sprint to cover the open distance to the safety of the small town.

The sun was starting to crawl above the tree line and if you waited any longer you would lose the advantage of night.

‘Where are your friends?” you ask, scanning the line of black SUV’s for movement in your favor. All you see are faint silhouettes that look heavily armed and suited. If they know you two are there, they aren’t reacting.

“Just over the border. This is the rendezvous point.”

You squint harder but see nothing. There aren’t any people moving around. Not even a stray cat or dog.

“You sure? This town looks pretty dead. Nieuweschans? Is that right?” You read the name on a sign behind one of the SUVs.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” The steering wheel cracks when he lets it go to unbuckle his seatbelt.

The two of you get out and meet on your side of the car. He opens the back door and takes the rifle from the seat. He pops the mag and checks the bullets. You do the same with the Glock in your waistband.

You’re pleasantly surprised to find Thomas’ driver was smart enough to have an extended clip. But even with the customized clip, you don’t have many bullets left. Only four of the thirteen plus one in the chamber. You click it back into place and take a deep breath.

“How’s your ammo?” he asks as he slips his Glock into the back of his jeans.

“Good,” you lie. You’re not sure why you lie to him.

Maybe you’re afraid he’ll give you the rifle if you tell the truth. Whoever had it had the best chance of making it over the border. Deep down you knew that should be him. You didn’t deserve that kind of chance.

If things went to shit you knew he would leave you. Hell, you’d leave you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to take the rifle from him.

Bucky adjusts the mag of the rifle making sure it’s secure and holds it across his chest. “Ready?”

You nod. The two of you round the car and head for the line of SUVs.

“If you die,” you start to say as the first door pops open and an officer dressed like a soldier steps out. “Do I still get immunity?”

He looks at you for a second as you two pause on the edge of the tree line. You smile up at him and he laughs. It’s quiet and short but it’s genuine enough to warm your heart.

“We should distract the first car in line and head to the rear,” you suggest, flicking the safety off and pointing the nose of the gun to the ground.

He nods and lifts the barrel of the rifle. The officer who stepped from his car is looking in the brush but his eyes glance right over you two. That was the last bit of luck you expected from the universe as Bucky pulled the trigger.

It hit its mark igniting the engine and sending the man diving into the pavement. And you’re running.

Every door in the line of SUV’s swing open at varying speed. The men step out and spin in every direction looking for the source. Angry yells and shouts turn towards the two of you. Running across the open road.

Then the deafening gunfire starts. Pavement shatters at your feet but you keep running. No time to shoot back. You tumble and dive behind the trunk of the last car in line. The officers round the back. Your trigger pulls and their bodies drop and your bullet count is down to three.

Bucky takes out the three from the car in front. Bullets clang and ricochet off the metal car bodies as the men run down the line. They’ve got their wits back and are moving fast.

Bucky’s leaning out from behind the car and picking them off but there’s too many and you don’t have ammo to spare. You look to the town and gauge the distance. You’re so close.

The officers are focused on Bucky. You could make it if you went now. Each second you wait they get closer. But you owe this man your life and you don’t want to die in debt. Or worse; he dies without you paying back.

Your legs twitch anxiously trying to make up your mind. A door on the car you’re behind pops open and the barrel of a gun swings out. It’s not aimed at you. They don’t see you. It’s aimed at the back of Bucky’s brunet head.

You jump up and the glass shatters after the bang of the bullet. Your count is down to two. But your debt is suddenly gone. Maybe the universe wasn’t done handing out freebies.

And yet you still can’t move. The rifle takes out two more and they’re literally feet from the nose of his car. An invisible thread holds you in place.

He’s strong enough to take on some of them if they’re close enough. That metal arm is good for something. You can be the distraction this time.

“Get into the town! I’m right behind you!” he yells back at you.

“I’m not leaving you here!” you yell back before you can think. That doesn’t sound like you.

The first couple of officers round the back of the car and Bucky shoots to his feet. A metal fist to the chest of one and right hook to the head of the other. They’re down but the others start shooting again. He deflects some with his left arm and they cling and ricochet like they did on the cars. But a couple bullets graze his waist and flesh shoulder.

Red fabric and blood bursts on their impact. He looks back at you for a split second. Where you expect to see pain, his face is contorted in anger and annoyance. “Go!”

So you stand and run, using one bullet to take out the officer closest to Bucky. That gives him enough space to raise the rifle and return fire again.

But their attention isn’t on him anymore. It’s on you.

Fifty yards from the safety of the buildings. Forty-five and you’re sprinting. Pumping your arms in time with your legs at forty yards.

The pavement behind you explodes in gunfire. Each pump of your wounded arm sends a burning pain through your shoulder and down your spine.

A lucky bullet grazes the top of your thigh midstride. Deep enough to bleed. Not deep enough to stop you. Twenty-five yards.

It’s like you’re in a dream and the faster you run the farther the walls of the town get.  You can still hear Bucky grunting behind you but you don’t turn. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

Another bullet cuts across your back and you yell out in anger. There’s a fire burning in your throat and chest. If you had the rifle, every last one of these fuckers would be dead.

Ten yards. You’ve crossed the border but you don’t stop. Their gunfire doesn’t stop either. You don’t have to look to know they’re following you into the Netherlands.

Five yards and you can’t hear Bucky anymore. But that’s probably just because the gunfire is drowning him out. Probably.

Two more strides and you’re in the walls of the town. The gunfire stops but you don’t. A couple of people have stepped out. They’re looking around trying to find the source of the gunfire. A few curtains move and sleepy faces watch you pass.

You turn onto every street. Left right left right left left. Until you can’t hear anything but your breathing.

You hug the wall and wince at the sting of your new wound against the siding. Your shoulder is throbbing but it’s dull compared to your thigh and back. You look left and right before leaning over and forcing deep breaths into your lungs.

No time to think. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Slow down. You focus on the earthy scent of the road and the faint cabbage remnants of someone’s dinner. And a hint of coffee from an early riser.

You can still hear some gunshots out by the line of cars. That was a good sign for Bucky.

Your heart is pounding against your ears.  But it’s not loud enough to block the sound of boots. They’re coming down the street to your right so you take off to the left, rounding the first corner.

You’re sprinting through the streets and it’s Bremen all over again. Too many shooters. And no friends.

Then another sound joins the gunfire and thudding boots. It’s some kind of mechanic whirring and blast. Almost like an industrial strength fire extinguisher firing off every few seconds.

A jet zooms overhead but you can’t see it. You whip around to get some idea of where it’s going but there isn’t a trail in the sky. Instead, a small red drone glides just a foot over your head. It looks like something a kid would fly. Just a little bigger than a toy.

Every turn you take it follows close behind. You want to shoot it down but it’d be your last bullet. Could it be tracking you? Every time you look back at it you expect to see it gone but it stays. You can’t outrun it.

Your legs burn and you have to stop. You can’t hear footsteps anymore, just that damn red drone.

“What the fuck do you want?!” you hiss at it, throwing a hand. It dips away from your swing and rises just above your reach. “Little bitch.”

Another jet sounds behind you. Really fucking close. You spin around in time to see a pair of wings dive over your head. You jump to the side and raise your gun as a man faces you. The thrusters on his wings light the alley and it’s not a jet at all. There are a literal pair of wings extending from his back.

You fire your last bullet on instinct. His wings whip around and deflect it. Both your attention draws to the pop of the slide on your gun. Bad move. He laughs.

“I’ve got her, Cap. West side of the town,” his voice booms. It’s deep and loud when you realize the gunfire has stopped.

“You don’t got shit birdman,” you scoff, twisting and taking off towards the open street. Where you’re greeted by a tall man dressed head to toe in faded red white and blue.

Captain fucking America.


	10. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without any good reference from Bucky, you're stuck in an interrogation you feel is completely unnecessary.

Your first move would have been to pistol whip Steve Rogers. Luckily you’re not close enough to make that stupid choice but he’s striding towards you with his shield held defensively. And it’s the red, white, and blue shield that reminds you what Bucky said.

He was with SHIELD. And his team was waiting over the border.

The information clicks together when the Captain is one stride from closing the distance.

His team is the damn Avengers. The ex-Winter Soldier is an Avenger.

A pair of cuffs clink together as he pulls them from a pocket on his suit. You drop the empty gun and it falls heavy to the ground.

“Protection for information, right?” you ask quickly, stepping back and holding your empty hands up. You wince at the pang in your shoulder.

He slows his walk and lowers the shield slightly. “Yes, but you still need to put these on.”

“So I’m a prisoner? I thought I was precious cargo.”

“Not even close,” the bird guy laughs.

You turn to face him fully intending on giving him a nasty look, but cold metal clasps your hands and yank them down.

“What the hell?!” you gasp at the pain that bites deeper into your shoulder. You’re pretty sure the force he used to yank your arm down tore the shot on your back even wider.

“Where’s the man you were with?” He asks, holding you still when you try to pull away.

“Bucky?” you ask and he nods.

But there’s really no need to clarify. You just want him to know you were on a first name basis. It was apparent he hadn’t heard the immunity part of the deal yet. But if Bucky was dead he might never hear it.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the lack of gunfire by the cars. It could be a good sign. Could be.

“Last I saw him, he was back by the border,” you start. You’re about to say you ran when Bucky told you to go, but you don’t get that far.

He yanks you around and cuffs your other arm behind your back. You try to pull against him but it’s as useless as pulling against Barnes’ metal arm.  

“Sam, get her to the Quinjet. I’ll get Buck.” He shoves you at the bird guy and takes off the way you came. Dear Lord, did that serum gave them speed.

Sam grabs your arms and you’re flying. Which would be pretty cool if he wasn’t tugging against your shoulder. You’re above the buildings and what looks like the town square in a matter of seconds.

You’re yelling in pain and fighting against him until he drops you a few feet from the air and you tumble to the ground.

Dirt grinds against your skin and the open wounds on your back and thigh. You roll to a stop a good walk from the Quinjet.

Every muscle in your body wants to quit and just sleep right there. The adrenaline from before is draining almost as fast as the blood from your old and fresh wounds.

Sam comes in with an expert landing and pulls you up at a jog. Again tugging at your bad shoulder.

The dizziness you thought was from the short flight doesn’t go away. And neither does the fatigue.

The closer to the opening of the jet you get, the stronger it gets and the more you realize it’s probably from the blood loss. Three gunshots in two days. Your body hadn’t had time to recover from the first.

A few feet from the ramp and the darkness swells in from the sides of your vision. It’s faster than last time.

You have a second to make out two figures at the top of the ramp before you blink. But your eyes don’t re-open. And you don’t feel your foot hit the ground in your last stride.

Now you’re stuck in that expanse of darkness between consciousness and probably death. It was only a matter of time honestly, and you knew it. You’d pushed your body to many limits before, but if you survived this you’d be looking at a new record.

Then the empty is replaced with something very cold pushing against your back. A warm hope wants to think it’s Bucky but you left him for dead didn’t you?

You push against the heaviness on your lids. It feels like the heaviest weight you’d ever lift. A slit of bright white light cuts the black and you blink harder. A few minutes pass and you’re blinking against the florescent light hung in the middle of the room.

It’s all white. White walls white floors white ceilings. The only thing not white is the metal table in the middle with two chairs across from eachother. And the hard metal slab you’re chained to. Also the large, obviously two-way, mirror directly across from you.

As soon as you sit up, the door next to the mirror opens. Before you see their face, you hope it’s Bucky. Instead, in walks a short SHIELD agent holding a clipboard with a piece of paper.

They unchain you from the bed and pull on your cuffs, leading you like cattle to the chair. You realize the cuffs are now in front of you instead of behind. And the pain in your shoulder is almost nonexistent.

You’re too dazed to say or do anything to this agent as they clip you to the ring on the table securing you in place.

Your body still feels heavy. Is it the medicine they have you on, or are you just tired? It definitely feels like the heavy that goes with drugs. Especially the ones meant to mellow and make you compliant. You have a lot of experience with those ones.

The mirror across from you shows a slightly disheveled and pale version of yourself. Your shoulder is wrapped in white gauze and you’re dressed in a white tanktop. A slow glance down shows you a pair of white cotton shorts and a thick wrapping of gauze around your thigh.

That’s right, you remember, you’d been shot there.

“Ms. Y/N, if you could answer a few questions we’ll let you get back to your rest. Who is your employer?” Her voice is distant and muffled. No pleasantries. Straight to the information.

“I want a lawyer. Get me a lawyer,” you grumble. This was one of the first things you were taught. No matter how out of it you were, if you ever wake up in anything resembling an interrogation room ask for a lawyer. HYDRA had a lot of pull when it came to the law; especially if you called the right lawyer.

“I’m sorry I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t? I’m a U.S. citizen.” You have to take a breath before continuing. Talking is exhausting. “It’s my right.”

The woman looks from you to the mirror behind her, then back to you. “You have no rights. Please answer the question.”

“I don’t have an employer,” you answer. You don’t want to speak but it just comes out.

“Who pays you? Who hires you?”

You don’t want to be here right now. You look this woman over, taking in details to try and clear the fog in your mind faster. She’s short and bulky, taking up a good portion of the chair. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she’s got pierced ears but no earrings. Her shoulders are broad and she looks like she could definitely take you on an off day. Biceps strain slightly against the sleeves of her uniform.

No weakness that you can see. And no weapon to use either. Too bad she didn't have her earrings in. They'd look great shoved in her eyes.

She clears her throat and taps the clipboard with her nails. They’re short but well manicured.

“Answer the question,” she says again.

“Just uncuff me and I’ll tell you whatever you want. I’m not a threat.”

“We have plenty of reason to belief that’s not the case.” She sounds annoyed. If anyone had the right to be annoyed it was the person chained to the fucking table.

Your eyes go to hers. They’re a light blue almost bordering on grey.

And just like that your brain is clear but all you can think about are grey eyes. Bucky’s grey eyes. Where the fuck was he? Why hadn’t you seen him by now? Shouldn’t he have told them about the immunity?

The way Captain Rogers had looked at you before shoving you away in cuffs comes to mind. He thought you left Bucky for dead. You remember hearing or reading somewhere that the two were basically brothers. If Bucky was dead, Rogers would think you were to blame.

And if they never got to Bucky to clear up the whole misunderstanding then there was no way they’d believe a word you said.

While all of that was a terrible thought to have, something much darker and with much more weight hovered in the back of your mind.

“Where’s Bucky,” you mumble, barely able to hear yourself. Please don’t say he’s dead.

The agent seems taken aback. “I’m sorry, who?” she asks, adjusting her rear on the seat and toying with the paper in her hands.

“James Barnes. Mr. James Buchanan Barnes,” you start, gathering your senses little by little. Your mind was clear but your body still needed to catch up. “Where the fuck is Bucky?"

“Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes’ Quinjet hasn’t returned from the Netherlands as of yet.”

The breath you didn’t know you were holding forces itself out. But the relief is short lived. If he was back with the Captain, shouldn’t he have told him about the new deal? Unless he was so incapacitated that speaking wasn’t an option.

Your heart drops at the thought.

She’s about to say something more but you cut her off. “I’ll talk when they get back.”

Her jaw clenches and you’re pretty sure you can hear her teeth grind in anger. She looks to the paper and then back up at you.

“If you don’t answer the questions, Ms. Y/N, we’ll be forced to us other methods to extr-”

“I don’t give a shit what you do to me. I’m not talking until Sergeant Barnes is the one asking the questions.” You clasp your hands together and stare her down until her gaze drops from yours. The little bit of patience you’d woken up with was gone.

Nothing more comes out of her mouth. She stands and leaves, taking one last glance at the mirror before closing the door. 

You would have told them anything they wanted. Now they’d have to pry it from your fucking corpse.


	11. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated that you won't talk, the SHIELD agent decides to try a non-violent form of information extraction.

An hour later and the door opens but it’s not the woman who walks in. It’s two men in lab coats. One carries a metal tray and sets it on the table. It clicks against the surface and a syringe rolls across the blue cloth it lays on. It clinks against a small glass bottle with a clear liquid and tiny label. The words are too small for you to read.

A different woman walks in behind them wheeling an IV pole. She shuts the door and pushes the pole to your left side. The full IV bag sways with the movement and its sudden stop.

Your cuffs jingle against the table as you stiffen in your chair. “What’s that.”

“You’re still very low on fluids. This will help,” the woman explains. Her voice is soft and her fingers work gently with the sanitary packaging as she opens the needle. She swipes the inside of your elbow with a wet pad and the antiseptic smell burns your nose.

“Not the IV. That.” You gesture towards the small container, feeling the wet spot on your arm cool and dry. 

They don’t answer.

The beefier lab coat grabs your arm firmly and you flail as hard as the cuffs will let you. His latex glove grip pulls your skin. When you don’t settle, the smaller guy grabs a restraint hanging from a hook on the IV pole.

“I told you we’d need the restraints,” the big guy grumbles sourly. He moves his grip to your shoulders and holds you to the chair.

“Get the fuck off me!” You yell, thrashing your legs and head. The top of the chair just digs deeper into your back.

“Just hold her tight,” the thin one says as he wraps the restraint to the chair.

The belt fastens around your chest and it clicks one notch too tight. You stop thrashing when it gets too hard to breath against the restraint.

They take that second to jam a needle in your vein and strap it to the arm of the chair. It’s almost too quick to feel, but a synapse in the back of your mind says you should have felt it. Like you feel the cuffs cut into your skin from the strain of the distance from the table.

The needle slips out and they tape the tube that remains in place. The nurse opens the valve and the fluid starts dripping.

It’s cold. You can feel it trail up your arm and spread across your neck and chest. But that might just be the panic.

You try to take deep breaths but the restraint just pushes them back out. So you start kicking again. Anything in your range. When your kicking gets out of hand they buckle them down too.

The agent from before steps into the room and you stare her down. This time she doesn’t look away.

“Just give her the damn injection already. What’s taking so long?” She takes the needle from the tray, shoving the men aside. She holds the bottle in front of your face when she draws from the liquid. It’s close enough to read.

Sodium Thiopental. Known to the common folk as Truth Serum.

They must have already dosed you when you were unconscious because the heavy and loose lipped feeling you felt before was exactly what that shit did.

“You really think some back-market Truth Serum is gonna get me to talk?” You laugh.

She pulls the needle from the bottle and injects it into the port on the tube. It mixes with the IV solution, swirling like oil into your vein.

Your heart is racing but you can’t breathe deep enough to slow it. The faster it beats, the quicker the Thiopental will spread.

“We know you’re no stranger to torture,” she says as she sits back down. She sets the empty syringe back on the tray and places a manila folder between you two. “There’s nothing we can do to you that your previous employers haven’t already tried.”

Bile gurgles in your stomach at memories you’ve tried to suppress. HYDRA had made sure that if you ever did spill their secrets, it wouldn’t be because of pain.

“So we’re going to sit here and wait for the solution to kick in. Okay?” She smiles at you.

You could care less about what she’s saying though. The only way to keep your mouth shut was to concentrate on something else. You have to drown her out. When you try to clench your fists, they move a little too slow. That means you have a few minutes before you start spilling secrets.

If you tell them anything you no longer have any leverage. Then you were disposable.

Breathe.

The restraints push against your chest and deny you the extra breath that can calm your heart.

Think about something. Think about something. Anything. Your little sister. Her smile. Her soft curly hair.

You hold onto that image as your arms become heavy. Your heart thuds hard and loud against your ribcage. The truth serum is starting to seep into your muscles.

Thinking back, you can feel the brush of your little sisters hair against your cheek. Almost feel her bony arms dig into you while you hold her. She’s laughing. You can hear it in your ears. She’s so happy to see you. But you can feel the memory going dark. It’s progressing through time until she’s not laughing anymore. She’s whimpering.

Hold onto it. Hold on. Don’t let the memory diverge. Don’t let it stray.

Then there’s no more orphanage. It’s a room with no windows and one light and she’s the one tied to a chair. Her sweet flowery scent is replaced with old blood and black mold.

You gasp when reality smacks you back to the present. Only it isn’t reality that smacks you.

“What the hell, lady,” you try to say, but it sticks to your mouth like cotton.

You blink a few more times, remembering where you are. The Thiopental is thick in your veins and the room sways a bit. It takes a second for you to realize it’s not the room that’s swaying, it’s your head.

“Now that you’re back with us, I’ll ask you again-” she starts, but you cut her off.

“Shut up,” you spit. Give yourself time. You have to stall.

“Excuse me?” She scoffs.

“Did I stutter?” You snap back.

That memory might have worked for you in the past, but it’s too old now. You have to think of something newer.

Your head falls back and you pull your eyes closed. Something newer. Anything. Find a thread and grab onto it.

The agent grabs your hair and yanks your head back down. You wince against her nails and grip, forced to look at her again. She won’t let you take the easy way out.

That’s fine though. You can go for a challenge.

So you lock eyes with her, concentrating as hard as your doped brain will let you. Every time you blink, you search the darkness for a memory. Something stronger than your sister.

“I’m going to ask you again. This time I’m going to need an answer,” she asserts.

You try for the gunshot in Bremen. Or the mission that got you there. But the memory of the pain just keeps you grounded and the mission is too basic to hold value.

“Who is your employer.”

“There’s more than one,” you feel yourself say. It’s out before you can stop. She smiles but it doesn’t touch her eyes.

The dream world you grasped at now slips through your fingers. You missed your window. So you decide to focus all of your energy on keeping your damn mouth shut.

“Can you name a few for us?”

The old familiar urge to talk pushes up your throat. It promises relief if you just open your mouth and _say something_. _Say anything_.

“Wendy’s, McDonalds,” you start to list with a lazy smile, “Kentucky Fried Chicken!” You laugh as she growls and she shoves her seat back. She takes the syringe and fills the thing damn near twice as much as the first. She drops the bottle and jams the needle into the IV port.

You should be afraid. You should be more concerned about the chance of an overdose than anything but you really don’t care. You don’t care that you don’t know the concentration level of the solution. You don’t care. You laugh at her again as she sits down.

You just don’t fucking care. She’s about to ask another question but you see her eyes before you see her mouth move.

Her eyes. The blue so light they could be grey.

The next time you blink, the grey is still there. But it’s not her eyes you see. The fuzziness of delirium and drugs starts crawling across your skin. You know it’s the Thiopental but you imagine it’s _his_ touch.

Another blink and you see the brows that frame the grey irises. Another blink and you see the scruff of his growing beard and strong jaw. It clenches as he blinks and breathes. You can feel his breath against your skin.

The female agent’s mouth moves but there’s a ringing in your ears that drowns her out.

The ringing turns to groans against your neck and collar bone that send chills down your spine.

You hold onto him. His face and the softness of his hair in your hands. The tight grip he holds you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, only it’s you who’s afraid he’ll vanish. . . the next time you open your eyes.

Hold on to it. Hold onto the image and the memory. The smell of his skin, of the woods and evergreen. The taste of mint and sweat. His warm wet lips against yours.

You keep blinking until the two worlds, the one in front of you and the one behind your lids, blend together. Now you can’t tell if you’re asleep or back in that small hotel room leaning into the warmth of Bucky’s chest. His hands hold your waist and trail up to your ribs.

 But he’s squeezing too tight.

“Take it to the last notch,” you hear someone say.

There’s a sharp pain in gunshot on your back and Bucky starts to fade.

“I think you gave her too much,” another voice comes in.

“I gave her just enough. She should be on the downfall of her high. Now do what I say and get out.”

You gasp as the white room comes back in blinding color. Or lack thereof. Your eyes blink rapidly and you register the female agent still siting across from you. When you blink again there is no Bucky, only darkness.

The drug still lingers but it’s not as heavy as before. You’re pretty sure the lightness in your head is from the lack of oxygen.

“Welcome back. I hope you enjoyed your little trip.”

“Bite me,” you sigh. You don’t think you could manage anything longer than that. If the restraints were any tighter your ribs would be broken.

“Lets try this again. Name your employers.”

Various faces and titles of the people who had hired you buzz through your mind. They swell and push against your skull. The only relief will come when you let them out.

But you don’t.

“Okay. Lets start a little smaller. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you gasp, and the pressure slips away with your name.  

“Where were you born?”

“Quebec.” More pressure eases from your mouth.

“Who trained you?”

“H-” you start but cut it off with a sharp yell. NO.

She was trying to catch you in the highs of the release of pressure. You shake your head and try to clear the fog. It stays and she asks you again.

“Who do you work for?”

The pressure pushes against your ears and your eyes and your throat and you want to say it. You want to say anything. You want to tell her everything but you hold onto the arms of the chair, take as deep a breath as you can, and scream.

When your voice cuts short with a crack, she clenches her fists and grunts. Her teeth grind and she stands, running her hands through her hair.  She straightens her jacket and walks to the door, slamming it shut as she leaves.

Your body leans forward and the restraint pushes a sigh from your chest. Your head falls and your eyes close. You’re so emotionally and physically drained that you could pass out. But you can’t. Your brain won’t let you rest. So you sit there with your head hung and wait for the door to open again.

How were you going to get out of this? You were still weak from your injuries which, oddly enough, didn’t seemed to be hurting you. You would have to wait them out. Or at least wait long enough for Bucky to return. If he was ever going to come back.

The door opens and you realize how exhausted you really are. Your tough side tells you that you can wait them out. No problem. The realist says you’re shit out of luck.

She must have changed her shoes because heavy boots walk to the chair. It’s gently moved and squeaks at her weight when she sits. Last time she ripped that thing out and it ground against the floor. Maybe she had pity on you now.

Your cynicism tells you that’s not the case. You were trained in a place where pity and mercy didn’t exist.

But here was different. Wasn’t mercy part of their code? SHIELD were the good guys. And good guys had mercy.

There’s a heavy clank on the metal table and your heart drops. You don’t have to open your eyes to know what it is. Probably another trey with a new solution to pump into the IV.

She doesn’t say anything. She just breathes. But her breathing is heavier than before. It’s almost deeper.

“Are you ready to talk?” The voice is deep and raspy. You think there must be another person in the room because that is not a woman.

Your eyes start to open and the first thing you see isn’t a trey with another solution or serum. It’s the glinting fingers of a metal arm clasped with the strong scraped knuckles of a flesh hand.

Your head rises before you tell it to and you’re blinking rapidly to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

No matter how hard you shut your eyes, the moment you open them he’s still there. He’s scraped and scratched but it’s him.

You sigh against the restraints. “Bucky.”


	12. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Bucky finally back safe, you're shocked to find he's not the same as before. Something's changed and it's not for the better.

Just the sight of Bucky is enough to calm your breathing. He’s safe and freshly dressed in something more official than a red Henley. It’s a tight black Kevlar top with the sleeve torn off his left arm. The metal shines in all its strength and glory.

The relief that rushes through your body is enough for you to want to start talking and never stop. You’ll tell him everything he wants to know right down to the first pencil you stole in grade school.

The only thing that keeps your mouth shut is the hard line of his mouth and clenching jaw. Is he trying to remain composed, or was there something more going on?

“Can you name a few of your employers for me?” he asks. The manila folder the other agent had brought in is resting on the table between you two.

The smile that snuck its way onto your face falls. You swallow hard, shoving the answer to his question down to your chest. Should you ask about immunity?

You’re not sure what to say. The coldness in his expression is breathtaking and not in a good way. It bites at the fantasy you had latched onto in the hotel.

If he had played the whole thing just to get you attached, just to make you trust him to follow him here, that’s some real low blowing shit. You try to find the warmth in his eyes that you saw before but you can’t. It could be the fog of the serum but you doubt it.

You were so desperate for a friend, for someone to trust, that you fell right into his hands.

“Not really. I can barely breathe,” you gasp.

He clenches his jaw and stares at you for a moment before standing and walking around the table. His hands are gentle as they undo the belt around your chest. It looks like he’s taking special care not to touch your skin.

But when he pulls the belt away the warmth of his forearm brushes yours. You sigh with a deep lung full of air. It feels good to breathe again. And you catch a small hint of mint before he places the belt back on the hook of the IV pole.

“Maybe I could get a glass of water too? I’m parched. Probably dehydrated too.”

He clears his throat and sits down. “That’s what the IV is for.”

“You want me to rip it open and drink it?”

He looks like he’s about to snap back at you but he closes his mouth and takes a breath. You wait for an eye roll that doesn’t come.

“I want you to give me names. Please.”

The pressure you swallowed starts rising. You were going to hold out until he got here, but seeing your Knight in Shining Armor is just another dick, why wait? SHIELD owned your ass now and there was nothing you could do.

You escape? The entirety of HYDRA would be knocking down your door in no time. And no doubt SHIELD would be right behind them. You had a wealth of information that they needed. No way they let you go easily. Better SHIELD than HYDRA.

So you grit your teeth and start with the big guys. The pressure isn’t as strong as it was before but it still feels good to let it go. You leave a couple of the big bosses out. They don’t need to know everything. Gotta keep them humble.

When you stop talking he opens the folder and sifts through a couple of papers. You watch his fingers flip through and pull at photographs. There are two paperclips sticking out of the top of the folder when he closes it again.

You think about the warmth of his hand and the cold of his metal fingers on your hips. A hard anger starts forming in the pit of your stomach. The serum tries forcing a few choice words from your mouth but you bite back. Now isn’t the time.

“Can you name these men?” he requests softly. His voice sends chills through your body but you fight to keep him from seeing. His metal fingers spread the photographs in front of you.

Three of the four photos have familiar faces on them. One of them is Thomas. No. Thompson.

You try to point with your hand to the ones you know but the cuffs cut into your skin. You scoot your chair closer with your newly freed chest and the pain stops.

When you scoot he flinches in his chair and his fists clench. You both freeze. Did he think you were going to lunge at him?

You shake it off. He played you once before but you weren’t going to let him do it again. You weren’t a threat to him and he knew it.

“That’s Thompson,” you answer, pointing with the arm that isn’t strapped and stabbed with an IV. “Low level arms dealer and hitman on the side. Nothing too special. These two are one of the Boss’s body guards. I’ve only seen them once.”

“What about him?” he pokes at the photo of the one you don’t know.

You shrug. “Never seen him.”

He shuffles the photo’s back into the folder and you see the paperclips again. The sifting of his fingers hits the pit of anger and it starts to grow. The words you really, really don’t want to come out are starting to burn a little hotter.

You glare him down while he looks through more papers. Who did he think he was? Sitting in front of you looking scratched and rough and gorgeous.

You almost cringe at your thoughts. Must be the serum.

Bucky looks up at you and a few stray locks of hair fall free from behind his ear. Your cuffs click as you think about brushing it away and taking a good handful in your hand.

Stop. You have to stop yourself from thinking about his damn groans. He played you so hard he’s still in your head. The arousal simmers to anger and the pressure builds a bit more.

Just say it. You’re already their prisoner, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care and neither should you.

Your voice cracks and you clench your teeth so tightly together it hurts. The words almost slip.

He stops messing with the file and turns his full attention to you. He frowns and you realize he’s waiting for you to speak.

“You’ll feel better if you let it out.”

He probably thinks you’re withholding some juicy secrets. Boy was he wrong.

“Nope,” you grit. The word barely makes it out. You have to shut the dam before the rest comes.

“Just say it,” he pries.

You laugh, “I don’t think so.” Each word that leaves brings the others closer to the tip of your tongue. You’re pretty sure the anger has started smoking. There might be flames.

Your feet kick against the restraints as you struggle to hold it in. He looks down and takes it as a sign to remove them.

“If I take them off your feet, are you going to kick me?”

“I don’t know. You wanna take that chance?” Getting closer. They were _right there_.

He stands and bends down to unsnap the wraps. When his head ducks down, your free hand snags one of the paperclips.

The belts jiggle free and you fight the need to wail him in the chin. It burns almost as hot as those damn words.

When he sits back down he sets the restraints on the corner of the table.

“Are you going to tell me now?” he asks, his fingers dipping between the creases of the folder.

The second he opens it he’ll know the clip is gone. How quick could you pick the cuffs? Probably a few seconds. But you’re sure he can clear the table and have you in a chokehold in one.

The burn is too much and you need to distract him. So you take a breath and let a little of the fire out.

“I’m so damn glad I didn’t fuck you,” you utter. It almost chokes you on the way out but it’s out.

It damn near chokes him too. Every muscle you can see tenses and his fingers freeze. When he looks at you, you want to see anger but you don’t.

You see the eyes from the small hotel room. It’s weakness and pain and vulnerability but he rubs his brow and it’s gone.

“You wouldn’t have gotten immunity even if you had,” he snaps back.

“Oh, so that was a damn lie too, huh? Is your middle name even ‘Buchanan’?” you laugh. “I knew ‘Bucky’ was too fucking weird to be real.”

He lets out an exasperated laugh and you’ve broken the cool attitude he was holding onto so hard. His metal arm grips the table and you’re not sure that’s a good thing. “You’re something else.”

“Yeah I am. I’m fucking crazy. I trusted you didn’t I?” The heat and pressure keeps coming. It’s started and it won’t let you stop.

Bucky’s eyes are on yours. So you flick the end of the paper clip open in your palm and he doesn’t flinch.

“I gave up my freedom to help you! I should have let you kill me in your damn night terror. It would have been better than this!” You jerk the arm with the IV that’s still strapped to the chair.

His other hand slams the table and he’s standing. The chair tumbles to the floor and he’s towering over you. You almost forgot how tall he is.

“Don’t act like you’re innocent in this! If I hadn’t gotten caught up at the cars you would have used me to get off scot free!” His voice is deep and strong. His chest tenses with each sentence that leaves his mouth.

“No! I could have run. I could have left you there but I didn’t.” You remember wanting to run. Wanting to leave him to those cops and sprint for the border. But you stayed. And look where it got you. “I could be sipping vodka tonics in the Netherlands right now but instead I got myself shot for you, you son of a bitch!”

He takes a breath to retaliate but the click of your cuffs as they release stops him short. Both your eyes go to your free hands. You look back up at him and he lunges for your hands. You kick against the table trying to shove it into him but he’s too solid. Instead it shoves your chair all the way back into the metal bed slab. That works too.

You fumble with the restraint on your other arm as he pushes the table from his path and struts to you. What’s left of the truth serum makes it real damn hard to get the buckle off but it falls away when he’s a foot from you.

You pull your knees to your chest and launch your heels into his stomach. It slows him just long enough for you to rip the IV tube from the inside of your arm. You pull your feet back before he can grab them and jump from the chair.

You fully intend to land upright but your muscles have different plans. You tumble to the floor and pull yourself up on the slab. You’ve taken too long. His arm wraps around your neck and he’s got you in a headlock.

The fabric brushes your skin so it’s not his metal arm.

“I would have told you everything,” you mutter before his bicep pushes against your throat. His body presses against yours as he leans over you.

Your nails dig into the tough Kevlar and you pull at his arm. You know you’re not strong enough to do anything but your hands need to be doing something.

The scruff of his chin pulls at the hair on the top of your head. His metal hand softly closes the headlock and the fingers settle in your hair. They’re hard but he’s so gentle you almost can’t tell it’s metal.

The pressure starts pulsing in your head and you can barely breathe. You stop digging into the fabric and just hold his arm. You know when you black out, all of the memories you tried grasping at will assault your brain at full force.

You don’t want to admit it but, right now, you’re weak. You don’t think you can handle that. Especially right now. The truth serum made you so raw and exposed and you can’t do it.

“Please don’t,” you choke. When you speak he loosens his grip. Not much but enough. “Please don’t let me pass out.”

Tears burn your eyes and you tell yourself it’s the serum. When your legs start to quit, he lowers to the ground with you. His metal fingers slide from your hair and lightly grab your wrists. The pressure against your neck ceases but that arm doesn’t move. You let him take your wrists and hold them to your chest.

You aren’t going to grab at him but if it makes him feel better you let him. Your butt hits the ground and your body leans into his shin until he gives in and sits behind you. Your back presses into his side and he still holds you firmly in place.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Yeah,” you start. You have to take a breath before your voice cracks. “Me too.”

His metal fingers let your wrists go and his hand settles in his lap.

“When I imagined you choking me, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” you chuckle.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he calls, his voice is so deep you can feel it vibrate through your body.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” a new female’s voice responds. It sounds like it’s coming from speakers in the ceiling.

“Cut audio and video surveillance to interrogation room three.” 

“Yes sir.” There’s a couple of clicks in the walls and then silence.


	13. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the cameras cut, you and Bucky finally have some privacy from SHIELD. Will you keep up the tough face, or break it down and let him in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first part of the smutty conclusion you animals have been waiting for! I might end up revising this whole situation if you guys don't like it. So let me know what you think!!! Enjoy! (I'm so sorry for any typos. I've read this thing like 17 times and they all just start to blend together)

When Bucky’s sure you aren’t going to try any more stupid things, he lifts his arm from your chest and leans against the wall. You shift to sit next to him. He seems to have written off your choking comment as nothing. Or he just didn’t hear you.

He pulls his right knee up to rest his arm against and exhales. His head hits the wall softly.

“So what happens now?” you ask.

Another exhale. “We talk.”

“I thought we just did that. You want to do all that again?”

“Without all the misconceptions,” he asserts.

“And the headlock? Or are we keeping that?”

Bucky grumbles and doesn’t grace the comment with an answer. He just shifts his legs a little and takes a deep breath.

“You mean without you thinking I just wanted your body for the strategic advantage?” You look over at him and his eyes are closed. Even in the harsh white light his face is amazing to watch. The light flutter of his lashes and tensing jaw. “I was ready to take one for the team.”

“That bad, huh?” His eyes remain closed. His jaw tenses again and it looks like he’s thinking. You wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Terrible. Truly pitiful.” You sigh loudly and lean your head against the wall.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” he counters, his voice dropping a little lower than before.

“It’s called acting son,” you smile at him but his eyes are still closed.

He smiles a bit but it falls quickly. “If we’re gonna talk, doll, you gotta drop the sarcasm. It’s just us.”

“Sorry,” you mutter before thinking. Apparently there’s still some truth serum hanging on in your system. You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your arms on them. Bright red catches your eye and you realize you’re bleeding. When you ripped the IV out you ripped a bit of skin too.

“I’ll grab a bandage.”

You look over at Bucky when he speaks. He’s watching you and you wonder for how long. He grunts as he pushes himself to his feet and heads for the door.

“If you don’t come back, I’m running,” you call after him.  A part of you is afraid he really won’t come back and the female agent will walk in instead. So you memorize the broadness of his shoulders down to the way his feet plant so firmly when he walks. Just in case.

“I’ll catch you,” he calls back before slipping out of the door. It latches behind him and you take a deep breath to calm your rising heart rate.

Bucky’s opening the door before you can think about anything else.

“That was quick.”

“There’s a supply closet right across the hall so,” he explains, holding up some bandages. He walks over to the table and gestures for you to come over. While you struggle to get to your feet, he puts the chairs and table back in the middle of the room.

Once you’ve made it vertical again, you step to him and hold out your arm. There’s a red trail dripping down your forearm. He tears open some packages and messes with a couple of bandaids.

Each second Bucky takes getting everything unpackaged is another second you realize you want his hands on your skin. Metal or flesh you don’t care. The need you felt in the hotel is back in record time and you rub your thighs together as discretely as possible. You need some kind of friction or relief but that’s all you can manage right now.

He peels the antibacterial pad from its foil package and hovers over the blood. You watch his hand move to choose where to start. You memorize every scar, vein, and fresh scrape and he still doesn’t touch you.  

He rubs the small square between his fingers and you have to hold back a noise that crawls up your throat. If it’s annoyance or something else you don’t know but he was starting to piss you off. So it was probably annoyance.

“That’s dry,” Bucky mumbles with a frown and tosses it onto the table. He grabs another package and takes his sweet damn time tearing it open. The wipe he pulls this time glistens in the florescent light.

When he doesn’t press the wipe to your skin you look up at him to see what the deal is. He’s watching you again, his jaw clenched and eyes darkened. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and shakes his head quickly.

The cool of his metal arm gently takes the bottom of your elbow while the wipe presses to the torn skin. Your muscles twitch at the feeling and he makes small circles against your skin until the blood trail swipes clean.

He keeps his metal fingers pressed to your elbow while the others take a small bandage he unpackaged earlier. His warm fingers press against the sensitive red skin and place the adhesive. A small sigh slips from your lips and he lingers.

When he pulls his hand away you watch it go. You want to feel his fingers on your skin and his breath on your neck. You need his touch and comfort and companionship so you open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out. How the hell do you ask for something like that?

Bucky’s metal fingers slide to wrap around your forearm and he pulls you closer. He doesn’t stop until your chests are brushing and you’re looking up at him dumbfounded.

His warm right hand rests on your side and pulls you even closer. Now your breasts and free hand are pressed against the muscle of his chest and abs. 

You’re so close you can feel the cooling mint on his breath. His head leans towards you but your lips don’t touch. If you tiptoed you could close the distance but you don’t. You wait for his move.

It doesn’t come. “Are you going to kiss me?” you offer, taking a handful of the tough fabric of his shirt. You feel the friction as the fabric pulls against your chest and he leans in a little closer.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” you sigh, barely able to hold back the shake in your voice.

His lips are so close you can feel the heat of his skin but when you raise yours to his he pulls back. You’re about to cuss him out but he’s shoving you into the wall before a word comes out.

He grazes your chin with his breath and his lips brush against the sensitive spot below the lobe of your ear. Cool metal leaves your forearm and skims the other side of your neck sending chills down to the heat between your legs. His fingers sift into your hair and the heat is growing hotter.

But his damn lips never touch you. Your free hand grabs a handful of his brunet hair, trying to pull him into the crook of your neck but he laughs at you. The breath that warms your skin sends a whimper to your lips. “Please.”

He pulls back and looks into your pleading eyes. Were you really pleading? You don’t care. You want him, _need him_ , to touch you. To kiss the ache and need away. You feel like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t.

Bucky smirks and leans in again, this time pulling you to him with the metal hand tangled in your hair. He’s soft and hot and wet and _fuck_ you need more of him. The hand on your waist slides down to grip your ass and pull your hips against his.

You groan into his kiss feeling the bulge of his arousal press against the mound of your pelvis. The second the sound hits his lips he grips your ass in both hands and lifts you up against the wall. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist as he grinds his hardening length into you.

Another groan chokes your throat at the sparks that shoot across your body. Your arms wrap around his neck and his mouth moves from placing bruising kisses against your lips to your jaw and the soft spots underneath. The scruff of his growing beard scrapes the whole way.

His hair brushes across your face but it smells different than before. Instead of the sharp gunpowder, it’s an oaky and almost spicy cinnamon scent. It warms your nose and lungs the way his mouth and tongue warm a trail to the ridge of your collarbone.

The heat of his now hard cock pressing firmly against your cotton covered folds was getting uncomfortable. Either you need more friction against the sensitive bundle of nerves or you need him. Now.

“Bucky-” you start to beg, your voice bordering on a moan before he cuts you off.

“Yeah,” he breathes. His voice is a low groan and when he looks up, you can barely see the ring of his grey irises. He knows exactly what you want.

His pupils are blown and his breath is hot and heavy when he crashes his lips to yours in a quick sloppy kiss. Then he pulls away from the wall giving you time to drop your feet before he unclenches his bruising grip on your ass.

His fingers dip into the elastic waistbands of your shorts and underwear. The muscles of his arms tense as he goes to push them off but you grab his wrists. He looks up at you quickly, almost pulling back like he’s hurt you, waiting for your confirmation to continue.

“What if someone sees?” What would SHIELD think if they found you in such a compromising position? A hotel was one thing, but right in their damn building was another beast altogether.

“They can’t,” He asserts, but his hands don’t move.

“What if someone walks in?” You have to think with your head not the growing heat and wetness between your thighs. And that’s becoming harder and harder to do.

“They won’t.” His breathing is getting rougher and his fingers fidget against the elastic and brush your skin.

He waits patiently for the minute it takes you to decide that the growing need at your core is more important than the consequences. At this point, you don’t give a solitary fuck.

You let go of his wrists and tug on the waistband of his tactical pants. He yanks the shorts and underwear to your thighs, his hands taking a second to graze down your hips, and flicks them past your knees to the ground.

You’re still fumbling with the damn buttons and clasps of his pants when he lifts you back up and slams you to the wall. Your fingers give up on the stupid thing and sift into his hair instead, pulling him to your mouth again. Open mouth kisses and tongue and breath and mint and he grinds right into your clit.

“Fuck,” you cry while the rough fabric sends electric shocks down to your toes. “I don’t need foreplay, I need you.” You barely manage to say.

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” he rumbles, his voice vibrating into your throat.

Bucky’s hips shift against yours pulling a small moan from your lips. You can feel his smile when your legs tighten around him and pull him as close he lets you. You’re a second away from dry humping your way to release if he doesn’t cut the shit.

Your fingers grip hard in his hair and pull his head back. When his chin tilts up, you lick and kiss that beautiful jawline and bite down on the little soft spot behind his earlobe. This time it’s his length that presses needy against your heat, followed by a nice rumbling groan.

“Don’t fuck with me Barnes,” you growl into his ear. He shivers so faintly you almost don’t catch it, if not for his cock’s slight twitch against your folds.

“Hold onto me.”

You do as you’re told, moving your hands from his soft hair and wrapping your arms around his neck. He presses his chest against yours and holds you to the wall, breathing into the crook of your neck while his hands unbutton and snap open the fly of his pants.

You can hear the zipper and shuffling of clothes and you want to look but you can’t. He’s got you pressed so tightly against the wall you can barely breathe let alone see. A small needy whine crawls up your throat and he chuckles into you.

The small whine turns to a moan the second you feel the head of his cock press against your slick folds. But he doesn’t press hard enough to enter, just enough to glide up against your swollen clit. Your walls clench around nothing and your legs try to pull him into you but he doesn’t move.

“Damn you’re really fucking wet,” Bucky groans in what almost sounds like disbelief. If you had enough brain power to say something, you’d tell him it was his fault. But words, and most thoughts, are failing you.

His metal hand moves back to grip the side of your ass, fitting right back into the bruises that were probably already starting to darken. Then, too damn slow for you to stand, he pushes the head of his cock into your folds. His hips stop and you think he’s going to draw this out until your mind is a melted horny mess. But he wants this as much as you.

His flesh hand joins the metal one and his fingers dig into you as his hips push his thick length up to the hilt, stretching and filling you so completely. His pelvic bone presses against your clit and he’s buried inside of you as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” you moan. Your head falls back and hits the wall as the heat spreads and sparks, pushing the word from your lungs and squeezing your throat.

A guttural groan against your neck followed by a wet hot kiss, lets you know he’s just as speechless as you. Minus the expletive.

Your walls squeeze so tightly around his girth he almost struggles to pull his hips back and grind back in. You can feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it slides into you. His tip grazes the electric spot as he sheathes himself again and your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck, doll, you feel so damn good-” his voice hitches in a moan when your hand finds a handful of his hair.

No sounds come out of your open mouth but you want _desperately_ to yell at him to go faster, to fuck you senseless. Luckily, you don’t need to because he’s starting to thrust to a rhythm. Each time the ache of emptiness starts, he’s stretching back inside until it’s not about control it’s about speed.

Each hard thrust forces a moan and a cuss from your lips and your breathing is so out of control your vision is going spotty. Each moan is louder and raspier than the first until you’re so blissed out the only thing that makes it from your lips is his name.

“James,” you breath against him, over and over in time with each thrust and snap of his hips until his pelvic bone starts grinding against your clit and the sparks it shoots to your fingertips and toes is _almost_ too much.

The pit in your stomach is on fire. It’s igniting every time the tip of his cock hits the deepest part of your cunt and his skin smacks the sensitive bud of nerves.

Your walls start to clench tighter around him and the pleasure is gripping your throat so hard you can’t get his name out. Your heels dig into the back of his thighs and his thrusts are getting sloppy but he doesn’t slow.

“Fuck Y/N,” he moans into the base of your jaw. “Come on doll, come with me.”

Bucky’s pace picks up for a few seconds and finally forces his name up your throat. The deep vibrations of his voice ache into your cunt and neglected nipples. His flesh hand quickly takes a grip of your hair and pulls your mouth to his in a hungry kiss, swallowing your moans. His chest presses against your breasts and the stimulation of everything at once has you screaming his name as the fire explodes and shoots over every inch of skin he’s touching in the strongest orgasm you ever remember having.

Your walls clench and flutter out of control around him and his thrusts go shallow and desperate as he finds his release. The head of his cock brushes your g-spot over and over dragging out your warmth and overwhelming bliss until he twitches inside of you, the warmth of his cum flooding around the tip of his cock and filling you.

His forehead rests against yours while he moans and whispers you name letting his hips slow to a stop, gently taking you back down from your high.  Your expert fingers are never going to top that.

The lewd smacking of skin is gone and just your heavy breathing stays. His sweaty forehead pulls away from yours and your eyes blink open. He looks fucking perfect even in the harsh white lights. Every scar, freckle, and blemish that marks his skin is fantastic.

You sigh in unison as he pulls out and sets you on wobbling feet. His eyes don’t open until your fingers untangle from his hair and glide down his chest.  And when they do he doesn’t look at you, just gently zips and buttons his pants back up before handing you the white shorts and underwear.

If you didn’t know him, you would have been angry when he doesn’t look at you. But you knew he needed confirmation. He needed to know you still wanted him.

So you grab his wrist instead of your bottoms and pull him closer, stepping towards him and closing the distance he made after setting you down. Your other hand fists the Kevlar shirt and you look up at him forcing him to meet your eyes.

The second he does, he presses you gently into the wall and gives you a quick peck. When you keep your grip on his shirt he lets his lips linger a moment longer.

“You smell like sex and antiseptic,” he says against your kiss swollen lips.

“Yeah,” you respond. “Partly your fault.”

“You need a shower.”

You make a show of glancing around the room, letting go of your grip on his shirt. “I don’t see a shower in here, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns away from you. The little sign that showed you were getting under his skin. You smile when you realize how fond you’re growing of it.

“Put your shorts on and lets go.”

You obey and start trying to slip them back onto your unsteady legs. He walks to the door and turns around to make sure you’re clothed before opening it.

“Are you authorized to do this?” you ask, hesitantly stepping towards him.

“You’re my responsibility. You’re under my charge. I can do whatever I need to as long as we don’t leave the premises.”

The way his voice lowers and almost growls give you the aching feeling he isn’t done with you. Not even close. And next time wasn’t going to be over so quickly. The fast fuck was one thing, you knew that.

But the look in his eyes as he stands in the doorway is enough to send chills down your hot and sweating back. It kickstarts your feet and you follow him out of the bright white light of the interrogation room.

He wants more. And _holy shit_ do you want to give it to him.


	14. Loner in Bremen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to get Bucky into the shower with you. To conserve water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to get out! I'm too critical when it comes to writing smut. I promise I'll try to get the next one out faster than this! As a bonus for being wonderful readers, this chapter is quite a bit longer than usual. Thank you for reading!

You follow about a foot behind Bucky as he leads you from the official looking parts of the building, to hallways with modern paintings you assume are worth a bit of money. There are a couple of doorways and an elevator that announce Sergeant Barnes’ presence as he crosses them. They beep angrily at you but he overrides them with a short command and you’re moving again.

The more you walk the faster you can feel energy and strength returning to your muscles. With your blood flowing, the electrolytes or whatever the hell was in that IV bag are starting to work. They were definitely helping you recover from the intensity of the quickie.

Your mind flashes back to his grip on your ass and his mouth on your neck. It sends a small swell of heat from your chest to your core. You wonder what he’s capable of doing to you beyond the span of 15 minutes.

“Watch your step,” Bucky warns, seeing the zoned-out expression on your face as you approached a step.

The staircase leads you past a living room where you hear a few voices. Before you can see who they belong to, you’re down another hallway. He comes to a stop in front of a grey door with a chrome handle. A small screen to the right of it glows to life and a black and white image of Bucky flickers across it.

“Welcome back Sergeant Barnes,” the same female voice from before pipes up before the door clicks to unlock. Bucky turns the handle and waves you through, swiping away a red warning that pops up on the screen as you walk in.

There’s a row of windows that line the top of the far wall. A few stars shine bright in the absence of the moon. You didn’t realized it was night. In fact, you didn’t know the time at all.

Bucky closes the door and it latches behind him.

There’s barely anything decorating the grey walls; an antique sniper rifle is displayed in the center of the far wall below the windows. The brightest things about the whole room are the dark blue sheets and pillow cases on the bed. They’re pulled so tightly and tucked so neatly there isn’t a single wrinkle.

A couple of shirts and jeans are tossed over a desk chair. The desk has a few scattered papers and a colorful glass paperweight. The lampshade is a slightly lighter shade of the blue on his bed.

His hand presses lightly to the small of your back and he ushers you to the left.

“Bathroom’s this way.”

“Do you have something against decorating?” You ask, letting him guide you towards another grey door with a chrome handle. This one doesn’t have a screen by it.

“I don’t have anything to decorate with,” he explains, opening the door. The lights are automatic and you’re relieved to see the walk-in shower is three times the size of the glass prison at the hotel, if not more. The tile and walls are grey and brown tones and the light is warm and relaxing.

“You could buy stuff to hang.”

“Why spend the money. I like it the way it is.”

When you’re both in the bathroom he flips the switch for the fan and closes the door. It whirs to life but doesn’t get much louder than a purr.

“Are you planning on joining me?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at him when you see he’s followed you inside. His frame almost takes up the entire doorway.

His eyes darken but he blinks his thoughts away and glances to the rectangle window over the sinks. “Can’t have you making a run for it. Too much paperwork.”

He sits on the fluffy white lid of a laundry hamper and leans back against the wall.

“Don’t you want to shower?”

“I’ll go after you.”

His eyes follow you to the shower and watch the way your fingers wrap around the handle as you pull the glass door open. You catch a faint whiff of the oak and cinnamon you smelled on him earlier. When you step inside and start to pull the sweat dampened shirt up, he turns his head forward, looking away, and clenches his jaw.

It looks like he’s trying his damnedest not to move his head. You smirk to yourself when the thoughts of a strip tease enter your mind. If you could slip the shirt smoothly over your head, maybe you could grab his attention again.

You get halfway to your neck when a small tinge of pain swells in your shoulder. It’s faint and only a fraction of what it was before, but it’s enough to discourage pulling it over your head.

Okay. That’s not a problem. You can start with the shorts.

You lock eyes on the side of his head, dipping your thumbs under the elastic band and slowly pulling them over your thighs. When the fabric finally reaches your knees, he takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw even tighter, and puts his head in his hands. But he doesn’t look at you.

You slowly shimmy your hips until the fabric softly hits the tile. Bucky’s hands rub at the scruff on his jaw before gliding through his hair. He lets out another long breath when your fingers start to tug the cotton panties from your hips. This time you drag it out, letting your fingertips graze the skin thinking about how warm his right and how chilled his left hand were.

You could swear he doesn’t breathe until the panties join the shorts on the tile. But he doesn’t look over at you.

“Barnes,” you call, but he doesn’t move.

You step out of the rumpled clothes at your feet and kick them up, catching them midair.

“Barnes,” you beckon this time, sweetening your voice, but his eyes are locked on the twin sinks in front of him. You crumple the clothes into a ball and peg them at his head, but they unfold in the air and gently brush against his arm.

His head jerks over to you with a frown that wrinkles his brows and eyes. He blinks a few times and the frown turns to stressed concentration to maintain eye contact with you and not drift lower.

You struggle to understand his mindset. Not thirty minutes ago he was thrusting you into a wall and making you scream his name. Now he wouldn’t give you a second glance in order to preserve some sort of privacy.

You’re hit with the realization that he actually respects you. Not as a weapon or an object, but as an actual human being. It’s no wonder you have such a hard time understanding him. This is a first.

“Can you help me with my shirt? My shoulder. . .” you start to trail, gently squeezing the almost healed flesh. The medical technology they must have here is incredible. There’s no ache at the pressure anymore.

He stands, taking a second before striding towards you. The bathroom itself is almost half the size of the bedroom, but he’s in front of you before you can blink.

His fingers take the fabric and pull, but he doesn’t pull up, he pulls you to him. You’re centimeters from touching him and if he wanted, he could pull you against him.

Instead, he waits. Just like he waited in the hotel and the interrogation room. He wants your permission. He _needs_ your permission. He needs to know you still want him because maybe you changed your mind. Maybe you don’t want his touch anymore.

Your fingers wrap around his wrists and your mind buzzes between the warm and cold contrast. You push against the cuff of his sleeve but only get so far before the tough fabric on his right arm stops you. Now you’re left hungry for the feel of his skin and strength of the muscle underneath.

Bucky takes your touch as an invitation to pull the shirt over your head. You raise your arms up and the shirt is freed from your body, holding onto a few strands of hair as it goes. He throws it out of the shower and his fingers are ghosting your waist before it hits the floor.

His fingers push under the band of the white sports bra that is miraculously your perfect fit. You wonder who picked it out. And who dressed you.

“This too?” He asks, tugging at it.

“Not until this goes,” you sing, fisting the bottom of his long sleeve.

There’s hunger in his eyes but he hesitates. You wonder if it’s his arm or the scars that mark the skin around it. Wasn’t that why he froze up in the hotel too?

He steps back from you and pulls the collar up and over his head before you can think more about the hotel. The Kevlar shirt joins yours and his flesh hand presses you into the cool slate tile of the shower before your eyes have a chance to appreciate every inch of his chest and shoulders and arms.

The pressure of his hand against your chest creeps to your neck and lightens. His fingers splay against your throat and shift to your chin. He holds your head in place, making sure your eyes stay exactly where he wants them.

You jump at the cool touch of his metal hand on the small of your back. When he starts to lean into you, pushing you harder against the wall, you slip your hands between your bodies before the space is closed.

Your fingers grab the clasp of his tactical pants and pop the first button. A smirk pulls your lips at his surprise. On the inside, you were just as surprised as him that you got it on your first try. For a high level assassin you really struggled with buttons.

“These too,” you smile, tugging the pants before realizing there’s still a copper zipper that needs dealing with.

“There’s boots that need untyin’ before that happens,” he hints.

The order is clear in the tone of his voice and it makes you shiver into the hard metal of his hand on your back. Your eyes must be bugging out because he chuckles at you. You almost drop to your knees to grab at the laces. His fingers slip from your chin as you go.

The boots are untied and loosened and you’re standing against him again. You want to pull him closer when he leans back to toss the shoes out with the shirts. The black socks he’s wearing underneath get yanked and tossed too.

Your fingers are in the waistband of his pants before he can stand up straight again. His hands cup the sides of your head, sifting through your hair before pulling you up to him. His soft lips press needy against yours. His hands gently angle your head back, opening your mouth for him. His tongue slides against yours in a quick taste before he’s pulling away.

Your body wants to follow him but his hands don’t let you. He grins at the little sound that creeps from your throat when he leans back.

There’s a heat that’s growing harder to ignore each time is hands move across your body.  It gets a little hotter when his hands tug the elastic band of your sports bra and lift it over your head.

The room isn’t cold enough to cause goosebumps, but the cool brush of his prosthetic sends them across your chest anyway. When the bra is fully removed his hands go back to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing your already hardened nipples. He gives them a soft squeeze and kisses the moan that leaves your mouth.

The heat spreads from your chest to his touch and to your fingertips. And now your fingertips are tangled in his soft hair. He groans into your touch and his hands move to your ribs grazing the underside of your breasts. His mouth trails to your neck and his teeth graze down the side of your throat.

Lips and tongue leave a warm wet spot against your collarbone before he pulls back and strips the tactical pants and briefs.

You have to stifle a moan at the sight of him. The way his muscles glide and tense underneath his smooth skin. The gentle way he closes the shower door with his metal arm. When he turns back to face you, you take your time going over every part of him. Unashamed of the extra glances at his hardening cock.

“See something you like, doll?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow when he reaches you.

You let out a strangled sigh and cover it with a smirk, trying to gather your cool. It was slipping away faster than before.  But he’s not fooled. He can see the shifting of your thighs and hurried breaths and the warm red color that creeps across your cheeks. It’s thrilling to him to have this affect on you. You can see it in the lust of his eyes.

“I asked you a question,” Bucky gently growls, his hands pushing your hips into the cool tile. The metal drags it’s way up your side and takes a handful of your hair.

Your cool is almost gone as a groan slips up your throat at the pull of his fingers in your hair. He smiles and tugs a little harder, crashing into a bruising kiss. This time he doesn’t pull away. He tips your head back again and his tongue fights with yours for dominance.

With each move of his jaw he’s pressing against you. His chest to yours. His shoulders slouching into you. The hard muscle of his thigh teasing between your legs and pressing into the wet heat of your cunt.

You moan into his mouth and he rubs into your swelling clit getting another slightly louder moan. His tongue claims yours and his cock is resting against your thigh. Your cool is gone.

Your fingers dig into his brunet locks and you hold his mouth to yours until your lungs burn and you have to pull away gasping the cinnamon and oak.

Bucky’s hands grip into the bruises on your ass and his muscles tense as he’s about to lift you against the wall but you stop him.

“Turn the water on,” you order. His metal fingers clink against the nob and steaming water showers from the showerhead.

As soon as the water starts pouring he’s got you lifted and pressed underneath it. It’s streaming down your shoulders and breasts and stomach and he’s watching its every move like he’s jealous.

You wrap your legs around him and pull him into the hot water. When you wince against the tightening grip he has on your ass he shifts his hands a little lower to the unbruised flesh of your thighs. His cock presses into the swollen bud of nerves and he swallows your moan in a kiss with a hint hot water.

The heat starts sparking through your body again but the shine of water droplets on glass catches your eye.

“As much as I would love you to fuck me into the wall again, maybe we shouldn’t do this in the shower.” You glance at the glass that’s too close to the wet metal of his arm.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks with a smirk and mock hurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into the flesh of your thighs. His length presses a little harder against your core and you hold back a groan and a shred of brain power.

“I don’t trust the slippery floor and glass door,” you breathe out. It’s easy to explain why you were in his bathroom, but you didn’t want to have to explain the broken glass.

“You’re no fun,” he grins, sliding your back down the wet tile and letting your feet settle on floor.

When your toes splash into the warm water swirling down the drain, your hands glide over his chest and the ridges of his abs before settling just above his hard-on.

“Can I make it up to you?” you hum.

Your fingertips brush his generous length and he jerks into you. His hands brace the wall behind your head and his nose nudges the crook of your neck as he leans into your body. You run your palm along the underside of his cock and his groan rumbles into your throat.

You start to lower yourself to your knees but his hand takes the side of your neck his mouth isn’t against and holds you there.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky whispers, his voice is rough and sputters the hot water against your skin.

“I want to.”

His hand goes back to the wall and with one parting kiss to your jaw, he lets you go to your knees. The tile is smooth enough that it doesn’t bite into you and you settle in front of him.

Fuck he was big up close. No wonder he felt so damn good inside of you.

You take a second to run your hands softly up and down his shaft until his hips start to move with your touch. You close your fingers around him, gently kiss away the pre-cum that beads at his tip, and realize you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing.

So you look up at him, and the lust blown grey of his eyes, and admire the way the water cascades over the muscles and scars. His eyelids flutter shut when you run your tongue over his head and circle the ridge before taking him into your mouth. Just watch your teeth and go with it.

Judging by his little groans and the way his hand finds its way into your hair, you aren’t doing half bad. Until the groans turn to a light chuckle when you struggle with your next move. You don’t have a gag reflex but you’re pretty sure the best move wouldn’t be to deep-throat him a minute after taking him into your mouth.

“Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing-” his voice breaks with a gasp when you swirl your tongue on his shaft. Before you can try anything else, his hand is gently pulling you back. His cock pops from your mouth and you lick the little bit of saliva that the running water doesn’t immediately wash away. “But have you ever done this before?”

You look up at him again, leaning into the pressure of his hand and continuing to softly stroke him. Your cunt aches in jealousy at how empty it suddenly feels compared to the thickness wrapped in your fingers.

“Maybe it’s been a while,” you mumble, knowing he can hear you but hoping he can’t.

He lets out a small laugh before kneeling down in front of you. The hand still tangled in your wet hair pulls you into a quick kiss.

“Stand up,” he orders. He helps you to your feet but doesn’t rise with you. His hands brush the insides of your thighs and you shiver at the heat of his metal arm. It’s absorbing the heat of the water and it’s almost too hot.

“What are you doing?” you ask, letting him spread your legs.

“Showing you how it’s done. Put your leg on my shoulder.”

He shimmies his shoulder under your leg and kisses along the inside of your thigh. You lift it up and his hand glides underneath finding its way to your bruised ass. But the heat and fire that burns at your core with every kiss is distracting enough to forget the bruises.

His shoulder dips under your other leg and your arms try to steady your body as you leave the floor but his strength is rigid and unmoving. You’re not going anywhere.

Bucky’s mouth gets closer and you wrap your legs around his head, resting them on his biceps and letting them hang over his shoulders. He rises to one leg but keeps the other knee on the ground and his hands slip to your waist and hold firm, his forearms bracing you against the wall.

A gasps turns to a groan when his lips slide the rest of the way down your thigh. You hold your breath when you think he’s going for your clit but instead nuzzles just above. You exhale loudly and grip the wet mess of his hair, which is still extremely soft despite the relentless waterfall.

He’s too strong for you to pull him into you and his grip is too hard on your waist to meet his mouth so you whine at the hot air he breathes against you.

You know you have to be dripping before his tongue finally flattens against your folds and licks a painfully slow strip towards your clit. And the fucker stops right before reaching the little bead. But he feels so hot and wet and good that the feeling swells all the way up to your chest and chokes a moan from you.

“So fucking sweet,” he breathes into your clit before taking another hot slow swipe dipping a little further inside you. He stops short again but it’s enough to have you squirm in his vice grip.

“Bucky please,” you moan as he laps at you, still avoiding the buzzing need.

“I didn’t peg you as a beggar but it’s music to my ears, doll.”

He makes a few more agonizingly slow swipes, sucking lightly on both sides of your entrance. His tongue dips inside and brushes your walls before his mouth closes around your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he sucks lightly, running his tongue in quick little circles around the bud.

You let out a moan that starts deep in your chest, working its way up with every tight circle his hot tongue makes. Your free hand grasps your breast and squeezes with the growing heat and tightness at your core, your fingers kneading and playing with your hardened peak.

His lips leave your clit and he takes another lap at your folds, this time going all the way up and continuing the little circles. Without missing too much of a beat in the long lick and circles, his metal arm shifts from your waist to wrap around your ass. His flesh fingers graze down your thigh, making sure your leg stays over that shoulder before brushing along your slit.

With no arms or hands holding you back, you buck your hips against his mouth. He gives your clit a hard lick before pulling away and looking up at your needy eyes.

“Careful,” he warns. His voice is deep and lustful but there’s a glint in his grey eyes that makes you shudder. He waits for you to nod before placing open mouth kisses down your thigh then closes his lips around your swollen bud.

The fingers of his free right hand glide across the bottom of your thigh. One of his fingers runs along your slit before dipping into the folds and caressing your g-spot on his first damn try. Even your own fingers took at least two.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his neck as his mouth and tongue and finger work together to pull the tight pleasure closer and closer. Each hot gliding flick of his tongue and strong push and pull if his finger drags you closer.

A little longer and he adds a finger to the slowly thrusting rhythm, brushing and prodding at your g-spot. The moans that leave your throat get higher and harder to hold back until your walls are tightening around his thick fingers and your clit is exploding with shocks.

“Oh fuck,” you repeat over and over, whining with need. The pleasure swells from your cunt to your legs and arms and toes and fingers. You hold his head against you, begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t. His fingers keep working you and his tongue flicks and licks until your moans are choked by the intensity of your orgasm. Tears brim in your eyes as your head hits the wall and your body arches so strongly into him you swear he could have dropped you.

Now you’re pulling him away, trying to get some relief but he’s unmovable. His fingers leave your heat and he replaces his grip on your waist. His lips latch around your clit and his tongue assaults the oversensitive bud with more speed and intensity than before.

Your legs are shaking and squeezing around him but he doesn’t seem to care. You’re almost crying and begging for him to stop when the heat and pleasure washes over you a second time. It pushes his name past the tightness in your throat and you can feel him smile against you as his tongue slows.

He leaves light kisses against your quivering heat and laps up your cum before the steaming water can wash it away.

Your head is buzzing and so is every other part of your body. If his hands weren’t still on you, guiding your legs and feet back to the wet tile floor, you’d probably pass out. His touch is fire against your oversensitive skin and it keeps your mind and body grounded.

“You sure showed me,” you huff, still trying to catch your breath. A cocky smirk plasters itself on his face when he looks up at you. You can’t tell if it’s your cum dripping down his chin or water but you like the way he wears it. So damn proud of himself.

“I’ve got a couple more things I can show you if you keep mouthin’ off,” he growls through the smirk.

When he stands and leans into you catching your lips with his, his cock presses into your thigh. Your sweet taste on his lips and the hardness of his length bring everything back into sharp focus.

One of your hands glides through his mess of hair while his tongue dances with yours. The other snakes down his body and wraps around his girth, gently pumping him. Your muscles are still recovering but it’s slow enough that he can’t feel your shaking arm. He’s too busy moaning into your lips to care.

Bucky pulls away from the kiss and buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hand grasps the other side of your neck and holds you to him. Metal fingers glide up your side to your ribs and gently knead one of your breasts.

You almost chuckle. Not so cocky now, huh? Your mouth is one thing. You can barely remember the last time you gave someone head, but your hands are skilled. You make a living off of them. They’ve gotta be good.

He’s so hard in your hand you can tell he’s close. The veins engorging his cock are throbbing and his moans are vibrating into your throat and chest and, to your surprise, start to pool a faint warmth at your core again.

His body presses even harder into yours and he pins you against the wall. “Don’t stop, fuck don’t stop,” he gasps against your skin.

Every rapid breath pushes his chest into yours and you’re almost struggling to breathe but you just pump him a little faster. You palm the head of his cock and smear the pre-cum along his shaft to try and lubricate him to go a little quicker but the water just washes it away.

You can feel him start to twitch in your fingers and you want to take him into your mouth but he’s pinned you too tightly and you don’t have time to ask.

So you let him knead your breast and moan into your neck and thrust into your hand until his cock twitches and his hips stutter and hot cum spurts and gushes. It’s against your hips and stomach and drips over your fingers.

Bucky is still quietly moaning against your neck while you stroke and milk the last of his orgasm. His sounds make your chest feel warm and almost happy. He holds you so close and presses against you so tight that you feel almost whole. Almost.

“What was it you were saying about showing me?” you tease, letting his softening cock slip gently from your fingers and grazing them up his hip.

He laughs into your neck before pulling away, finally giving you a chance to take deep breaths again. When he looks at you, his eyes are hooded and dark. The spark you saw earlier is still there. You bring your cum covered hand to your mouth and make a show of licking it, sucking his taste from each finger and seeing the spark flicker as he watches.

 “I’m going to make sure you can’t walk straight for a week,” he says almost sweetly with that cocky smirk slowly growing to a smile. He grabs your wrist with you midway through sucking the last finger clean. “And each night you’re forced to stay here because you can’t leave my bed, I’m going to make you cum until you’re a shaking screaming mess and the only word on your mind and lips is my name.”

 You gasp sharply and he lets go of your wrist, reaching behind your head to grab a dark brown bottle of shampoo. Your heart starts racing while you watch his fingers pop the cap and squeeze the gel into his flesh palm.

“As soon as you’re clean, we can get started.” He lathers the gel in his hands before massaging it gently into your soaking hair. His touch tingles against your scalp and your eyes flutter closed. The shower is hot and steamy and the water is calming and his fingers move to a soothing rhythm.

 You can hear the smile in his voice when he asks, “Does that sound good, doll?”


	15. Loner in Bremen Conclusion Part A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a steamy shower, things start to heat up even more in Bucky's bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all of your kudos and comments! I'm so sorry it took me so long to get the last couple of chapters up for you all, but I'm happy to say that they're complete and ready to go! The conclusion was so long that I had to split it into three separate parts. Part A, this one, will be posted today (obviously), part B will be posted either tomorrow or Wednesday depending on my work schedule, and part C will be posted on Thursday or Friday depending on work as well. Enjoy!

The towel Bucky hands you is blue and plush and soft enough to be a blanket. It smells fresh. But it’s hard to smell the clean detergent over the cinnamon and oak of Bucky’s skin. He’s standing so close to you, not seeming to care he’s making it rather hard for you to move the towel around.

“I’m trying to dry off. Do you mind?” you chuckle, glancing at the very thin space between your naked body and his towel wrapped waist.

“No.” He pulls the fluffy towel from your hands and lets it fall to the floor.

His hands brush against your ribs as he leads you backwards towards the bathroom door. Your own hands fly to his biceps, squeezing the muscle and metal to keep from falling backwards. He isn’t pushing you, but he isn’t exactly being gentle.

Bucky’s fingers slip around you and pull you flush against him before you reach the door. His face nuzzles into the crook of your neck and his mouth is hot against your skin.

He doesn’t pull away from you and opens the door, ushering you out towards the bed still guiding you backwards. Your knees hit the mattress and force you onto the bed. You feel exposed and cold without a towel in the open space of his room. That, combined with the heated and almost urgent touches from Bucky has your heart picking up.

The second your ass hits the bed, his fingers are tangling in your hair and brushing your arms. He wants to touch every inch of you and see how your body responds to him. You’re already soaking and your nipples are almost painfully hard. But he doesn’t touch them.

“Quit being such a tease, Barnes!” you hit his chest hard enough to draw his mouth and hands away from you. You expect him to come back and give your neglected parts the love they’re aching for but he steps back.

“Careful,” he warns. There’s a spark in his eyes, the same one you saw in the shower. It’s a fire you want to feed. How big can you make those flames?

You rest your hands back on the bed, leaning back as he leans into you. His body presses you into the firm mattress, leaving little room to move or wriggle free. Not that you’d want to try.

Bucky’s forearms lock you in and his mouth moves from yours to your neck, sucking hard just above your collar bone, pulling a small groan from you. You can feel the hickey forming before you can register what he’s doing.

Panic nips your heart when he moves lower and digs his teeth into your skin, sucking hard to bring blood to the surface. He’s marking you.

“Bucky, stop!” you yell, almost frantic. You’d be beating his chest with your fists if you could move them.

Bucky pulls back enough for you to push yourself out from under him. There’s a mix of concern and confusion on his face and you’ve half a mind to slap him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you almost squeak.

He kneels onto the bed and runs his hands along your thighs, trying to soothe you but you’re not having it. You bat his hands away and cross your arms over your bare chest.

“What do you mean?” He pulls back.

“You can’t do this!” you gesture to the marks you can feel getting darker. You realize you should be angry that he had the audacity to mark you when you didn’t belong to him, but that doesn’t bother you. “They’re going to see that!”

The confusion drops from his face and you swear you see a hint of fear. But it’s gone too quick. Replaced with that spark. And it’s getting brighter.

“Your shirt will hide it. Besides, it’ll be gone by morning.” His hands move back to your thighs but barely touch you, waiting for your consent.

“This one won’t!” you hiss, rubbing at the spot he’d bitten.

“Like I said, your shirt will hide it.”

You take a minute to massage the skin, trying to work out the bruise but knowing it’s not going anywhere. While it was below the neckline of your shirt, you still have to suppress a shudder thinking of what would happen if someone saw it. Would they think you were manipulating him?

You lock eyes with him and you think he sees that little fear in your eyes. You hope he can see it because you aren’t about to say it out loud.

He walks himself up your body until his arms are bracing your sides and his knees are on either side of your legs.

“No one is going to see them. And if they do, I’ll just have to have a little talk with them,” he says, his voice low. “Privately.”

You grind your teeth before letting yourself mutter, “I don’t want them to think-“ You sound small and ridiculous. It makes you feel so damn weak it pisses you off. As if sitting under this huge man didn’t make you feel small enough.

“What, that you’re using me? Don’t be dull. I’m a big boy. I can make my own calls.” His hands find their way back to your thighs and slowly circle their way up to your hips. “You might be a dirty girl, but your motives are good.”

Your eyes pop and your mouth almost drops and he takes the opportunity to grip your hips and pull you back underneath him.

When his mouth finds yours you don’t push him away. You can feel the smirk on his lips and the shock fades. If you had less concern for the situation you were in and the thin line you were walking with SHIELD, you’d let him leave whatever mark he wanted.

The towel still tied around Bucky’s waist brushes against your legs as he pulls them up and around him, leaning flush against you and trapping you again. His hips press roughly into yours and the feeling that had started pooling is brought to the front of your mind.

You wrap your arms around his neck and card your fingers through his hair. His lips trail your jaw and graze your neck leaving soft kisses and licks on the bruising skin. When you tug at his soft locks he moves lower, ghosting into the valley of your breasts.

His fingers knead the flesh of your hips, rocking them into his and grinding down into you. Warmth is flooding back into your core and you can tell you’re close to soaking his towel. And if he keeps it up, his bed sheets are next.

His body moves down yours and his cool metal hand glides from your hip to your breast, while his hot mouth licks a short trail to the hardened peak of your other nipple. Your chest rises into him but your hips are trapped against the bed.

He lets out a little laugh, the rush of air hardening your peaks even more, before nipping lightly and switching hands. The cool trails back down your waist and grips your ass while the warmth of his mouth and flesh hand knead and toy with you.

You moan softly and try to buck into him again to get any kind of friction on the coil that’s slowly tightening. You try to open your hips as much as you can to get contact with your aching clit but his hips are too low now.

No words are forming in your mouth so you try and pull him back up to you. Instead of listening to the tug on his hair, he nips a little harder on your nipple, testing you.

The pain is minimal but it sends a little jolt to your cunt and a small moan to your lips.

“Do that again,” you mutter, not sure if you’ve said it aloud or in your head.

Bucky’s tongue circles the hardened nub before taking it into his teeth. This time he pulls lightly and your chests rises with him. Your fingers tighten in his hair but you aren’t pulling him anymore. You like him right where he is.

He switches hands once more before rising back up to your neck. He grips your hips and grinds into you before spreading your legs wide beneath him. Your hands move to grip his shoulders and brace yourself. Your right hand vibrates lightly with the movement of his metal arm.

You can feel Bucky’s hardening length press into your clit through the towel and it makes you squirm against him.  

Your cunt twitches with the need to be filled by him. His fingers or his cock you don’t care. The need is growing and it pulls a groan from your chest. He pulls his mouth from your neck and looks down at you, reveling in the sight.

His flesh hand rubs gently down the outside of your thigh before gliding along the inside and brushing your folds. The contact makes you jump when his thumb grazes your swollen clit.

He wastes no time slipping his index finger inside and dragging it, slow and rough, against that electric spot. It tightens your walls around him and pushes air from your lungs.

Bucky curses under his breath and brings his glistening fingers to his mouth. He locks eyes with you as he licks them clean. Your heart races when his tongue drags across the space between his thumb and index.

Your mouth falls open and a whine slips out when your mind goes back to the shower. You want his tongue on you too.

He grins at you, returning his hand to your heat and wetting a few of his fingers.

The heated caress of his mouth. The skilled movements of his fingers. The power of his hips grinding into yours. Just the thought of it all is adding to the soaking wetness between your legs.

“You’re fucking soaked, sweetheart,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “You’re dripping.”

“No shit, Barnes,” you breathe, trying to hold some form of composure with the burning need growing out of hand. Your fingers dig into his right shoulder and creak against the metal of his left.

He presses his wet thumb against your lips. To shut you up or make you even more of a mess than you already are, you can’t tell. But it succeeds in doing both. You take it into your mouth and his eyes leave yours for a second.

You can see the fire spark again as he watches you clean his thumb. His grin grows to reveal a few of his perfectly white teeth.

“You know,” he starts, pulling his fingers from your mouth and slipping them behind your head, running them through your hair. “Before, I thought it was just the intensity of the interrogation or the water from the shower.”

He pulls the base of your neck up to kiss along your jaw.

“Do I really do this to you?” He says against your skin. It sends chills to your core and you shake against him.

“Ye-” He cuts you off with the cool metal of his fingers rubbing gently against your clit. Your arms wrap around his neck and hold him against you.

Bucky chuckles into the crook of your neck.

“Please,” you beg into the warming cinnamon scent of his hair. “Please Bucky I can’t wait anymore.”

The metal leaves your sensitive bud and you feel the soft towel being tugged from between your bodies. His flesh hand leaves your neck and slides behind you, half holding him up and half holding you in place.

The heat of his member is less than an inch from you.

“Can’t wait for what?” His lips move against you with every word.

“For you!” you almost cry. “I can’t wait for y-”

The head of his cock brushes along your slick and slides against your clit. Your hips jerk into him and a moan is muffled in his hair.

“Can’t wait for me to what, sweetheart?”

You can hear the damn smile in his voice but you’re one teasing swipe of his cock away from crying.

When you don’t answer, he places a deliberately slow open mouth kiss at the base of your jaw. His tongue drags along your skin until his lips close around it. Almost immediately after, his cock brushes your folds and grazes your clit. It pushes shocks to your toes and words to your mouth.

“Fuck me! Oh god Bucky please just fuck me!” It’s more a needy whimper than a yell, but it takes all of your willpower not to scream it.

“I’m not going to fuck you. I’m going to ruin you.”

Your breath hitches and you stop breathing altogether, tightening your arms around his neck and pressing your chest into his. If he doesn’t hurry, real tears are going to start burning your eyes.

Bucky’s hand underneath you clenches into a fist as he growls an angry “Damnit!” into your neck.

“What? Damnit what?” You whisper.

“My phone,” he grits through his teeth before pushing away from you.

You hold onto him as tight as you can but he pulls you away like a child.  “Can’t it wait?”

“No.”

He grabs his towel from the side of the bed and hastily wraps it around his waist. His hard on strains against the blue fabric as he strides awkwardly into the bathroom and digs his phone out of the pile of clothes on the tile. It’s only when he’s got it in his hand that you can hear it faintly vibrating. His senses are incredible.

He puts the phone to his ear and shuts the bathroom door before you can hear him answer.

You wonder how strong his other senses are. How good is his nose? Can he smell your arousal? Sex must be amplified too because that’s part of the senses, right? Touch?

Touch.

Just thinking about Bucky’s touch makes you want to moan. You’re so worked up you can’t sit still. You rub your thighs together and do your best not to let your fingers slip between them.

His voice echoes from the bathroom.

A smirk finds its way to your lips. What would he do if he walked out to you doing his job for him?

You shake your head. That’s really dirty even for you. Even in this state that might be taking it too far.

The ache in your cunt spreads to your belly and up into your chest and your fingers start to itch. You are so close it would only take you 30 seconds. Maybe less. You’d be soaking for him when he came out and you know he won’t stop until you cum again. He doesn’t need to know.

Your hand finds its way to the top of your thigh and you can already see your release. You can see him striding out of the bathroom having no clue you just came undone, and taking you over and over again on his bed until you’re cuming again and again underneath him.

Your fingers are stroking your throbbing clit before you know they’ve moved. Your free hand clamps over your mouth so he can’t hear you make any sounds.

Your fingers are soaked in your slick, gliding with ease over the bud, taking you closer and closer. You close your eyes as the pleasure starts tickling higher and higher.

You want to scream his name but your mouth stays shut. Your orgasm is right there, one more stroke and you’re going to collapse.

When he comes out of that bathroom he’s going to shove you into the bed and enter you in one quick thrust. His thick cock filling you up and-

The bathroom door whips open and your hands are pinned to your sides before you can register what the hell is happening.

Your breathing is ragged but the pleasure you were so damn close to is gone. Your eyes blink open and it only takes a second to see that Bucky is pissed. The spark in his eyes is almost fully aflame.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I-I-I Bucky-” Your brain isn’t working. It’s mush and you didn’t even get your release.

“I was going to get you off before we left, but I’ve changed my mind. You need some time to think about what you just tried to do.”

“What? Leave?”

His grip on your arms loosens and you realize he’s got jeans on. And no bulge or strain. Did he jerk off in the bathroom? Unfair.

“You’re meeting the rest of the team for a character evaluation.”

“Meeting who? You can’t be serious. Not like this I can’t! I’m a mess! I can barely walk!”

“And whose fault is that?” He raises an eyebrow at you, letting go of your arms completely.

“Yours! You asshole,” you shove at his waist trying to push him back but of course he doesn’t move.

“You would have been presentable if you kept your hands to yourself.”

You know he’s right. You would have come down enough not to look like such a hot mess. But he does things to you and you can’t help yourself. Just looking at him towering over you is making you rub your thighs together again.

“Please Bucky, just let me come. It won’t take long,” You beg. You’re beyond caring about feeling weak or badass or tough or ridiculous.

He grinds his teeth and fidgets with his fingers while looking you over. He cocks his head to the side and sighs, making way for a faint look of pity. Not the rude kind. More like the kind that says he wants to shove you into the bed and let you both forget about the meeting.

But he shakes his head. “No. We have to go now.”

“I can’t go out in front of them right now. Not like this. Please! Just real quick!”

He grips your shoulders and leans in close enough for you smell that now familiar cinnamon. You look into the darkening grey of his eyes, waiting for him to do something. Literally anything.

“I intend to take my time with you,” he starts, speaking deep and slow. “If that means you have to go out there dripping wet and shaking with need, so be it.”

A soft moan slips from your lips and his grip tightens but he lets go and backs off before doing anything else.

“I don’t have new clothes for you so you’re going to have to wear these.”

He tosses your dirty interrogation clothes to you and they land in your lap. You take an experimental whiff of them expecting to smell sex and sweat. Thankfully, and miraculously, you only smell the sweat. But the underwear is a different story. You’ll have to go commando.

He slips on a clean grey tank top and sits on the edge of the bed to lace up his shoes. You begrudgingly pull the dirty clothing back onto your mostly clean body and wonder how long it would take him to break down the bathroom door if you locked yourself in it.

You both rise and head for the door to his room when you realize you don’t remember there being a lock on the bathroom door. Maybe you could find a supply closet on the way to wherever you were going. You could hide in it and take care of yourself real quick.

Each step you take you can feel your wetness gliding. If you walked faster you might be able to get somewhere, but you’d end up in a heap on the floor moaning Bucky’s name. And knowing your luck, it would probably be just outside the conference room.

Bucky doesn’t speak as he leads you down a couple of halls and one staircase. He doesn’t touch you and he barely looks back to see if you’re still following him. For a second you think he doesn’t even need to look back because he can probably smell you.

“In here,” Bucky gestures to a translucent glass door with figures moving around behind it. You can hear voices but you can’t tell how many there are. He grips the long metal handle and pulls it open.

You take a deep breath trying to push the heat and need of your core from your mind. Then, when you’re as ready as you can get, you pass Bucky and stride into the room, chest held high.


	16. Loner in Bremen Conclusion Part B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You struggle to sit through an evaluation with 6 Avengers watching your every move. Will Bucky's word have enough pull to keep you out of confinement?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow! Would you look at that. I'm right on schedule. Didn't think that was going to happen.

The conference room is colder than the hall. You have to try not to wrap yourself in your arms.

You glance around taking in a quick layout of the room. There’s a long mahogany table surrounded by twelve black swivel chairs with mesh backs. Two of the chairs are occupied. The rest of the people in the room are standing.

Bucky closes the door behind him and you look at the people in this room.

Seated across from you is a sharp looking woman with a wavy bob of red hair. Her lips are full and dark and her eyes scan you from hip to head. When she reaches your eyes you wait a few seconds before looking away.

You’ve seen her profile before. Romanoff. The Black Widow. You remember when she switched sides you helped pick up the slack left behind. 

Next to her, in the only other occupied chair, is a much younger woman with long brown hair wrapped around her pointed features. You’re tempted to call her a girl, but she’s probably in her very early twenties.

Standing against the wall behind the two women is Tony Stark. His hands are resting on the sill of the window at his back and one of his legs is crossed casually over the other. Even with the lightly tinted shades he has on, despite it being nighttime, you recognize him. There’s no mistaking that goatee. That and the fact you’ve seen him at enough arms and weapons conventions to remember his face.

“Please, take a seat.”

Your head jerks to the source of the voice standing at the head of the table and you give the man a onceover. Nicely combed blonde hair, pale Irish skin, and two bright blue eyes. There’s no doubt in your mind this man is Captain Rogers. He’s roughly the size of Bucky, but for some reason his size seems less imposing. Even with his shoulders tensed so tight his traps are bulging in his shirt.

“I’m comfortable standing. Thanks.” You grip the backrest of the chair in front of you and Captain Rogers tries not to clench his jaw tighter than he already is.

Bucky pulls out a seat at the head of the table to Rogers’ right, and you notice another tall man standing to his left.

You recognize him immediately as the bird man. His close cropped black hair and dark brown skin, his puffed up chest accentuating his broad shoulders. He’s surprisingly striking without his winged costume and in proper light.

You can feel Bucky’s eyes on you and the bird man grins before you look away.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Rogers says. There’s an air of strength and importance in the way he speaks. “I’d like to start over. If that’s okay with you?”

“Apology accepted,” you smile. Before he can say anything you add, “Pending the approval of my protection and immunity of course.”

“You were always guaranteed protection, but immunity was never part of the deal,” Rogers responds.

“I was operating under the assumption that if we made it out of that country alive, I would be granted immunity. I’m sure Sargent Barnes can fill you in on that part.”

You pull out the chair and take a seat, feeling comfortable with your first impression. Technically second. But you were going to pretend that meeting in the Netherlands never happened.

Rogers and Stark both look to Bucky who raises his eyebrows at them. For second he looks like a puppy that just got caught doing something naughty. Bucky rests his metal arm on the table and pivots his chair towards you.

“If I remember that conversation right, I never said it was guaranteed. I said we could talk about it.”

His fist clenches and releases and his fingers fidget absently. You force away the thoughts that come with the movements of his shining hand. It catches the light from the ceiling and you snap back to his eyes.

“Then lets talk about it.” You fold your hands in front of you on the table, glancing at the six Avengers gathered around you.

Most of the talking is done between Rogers, Stark, and Bucky. They start on the topics of protection and what the proper course of action for someone like you should be.

Every few minutes you’ll get a disconcerted look from the Captain, to which you respond by sitting up straighter and trying not make any mean looks. Other than that, you aren’t required to do much of anything.

Which probably isn’t a bad thing since every move you see Bucky make gets you a little more uncomfortable. You do your best to keep your eyes off of him but it’s hard with the way his muscles and metal glide and move in the lights. He definitely wore that tank top on purpose.

You clench your jaw and stop yourself from moving your legs. You hope to high heavens the cotton of your shorts is enough fabric to prevent a little patch of wetness from seeping into the office chair.

You draw your eyes from the people discussing your fate on the right to the young woman sitting across from you.

While Romanoff had stood and walked over to join the all now standing Rogers, Stark, Bucky, and the bird man whose name you now know is Sam Wilson, this one had remained silent and seated. And you’re almost uncomfortable to find she’s already looking at you before you make eye contact with her.

Your attention is drawn back to the head of the table when you hear Stark and Rogers bring up immunity.

“What’s she done to warrant immunity? Other than taking out a few HYDRA agents on her way out of town, she hasn’t done much,” Wilson says. It’s the first he’s spoken in a few minutes.

“I gotta go with Wilson on this one. Her kill count of good guys versus bad guys is extremely off putting. Going by numbers alone, we would be crazy to even think about this,” Stark sides with bird man.

“If we’re going to use that kind of logic, then that puts both Bucky and I off the team and out in the cold,” Romanoff interjects.  She shrugs apologetically at Bucky who visibly tenses at her words. “Sorry Barnes.”

Bucky shakes his head before agreeing, “No, you’re right. We should be judging her by what she’s done to help us, not what she’s done for HYDRA.”

“So what’s she done for us?” Wilson quips. His eyes catch yours as he speaks and you hold his gaze.

You take it as an invitation to speak whether they want you to or not.

 “How about enduring unnecessary torture for information I would have given freely?” you suggest.

“I wouldn’t call that torture,” Stark frowns.

“Really? You want me to tie you up in that room and give you a go? Think you’d enjoy it?”

Stark rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s about to snap back at you but Bucky cuts him off.

“She did give us information. And I’m sure if we asked nicely,” he looks down the table at you and you suppress a shudder as he continues, “She’d be willing to give us more.”

You wonder how he’d ask nicely and immediately regret thinking about it. Your need sparks up and you have to take a breath to suppress a noise. You force your eyes to stay away from the defined muscles of his arms flexing as they cross his chest.

The young woman across from you shifts in her chair, a slightly uncomfortable expression flashes across her features.

“What more can she give us? She’s told us all she knows. The files have been filled out. There’s nothing more she can tell us that we don’t already know,” Rogers states, sounding almost disappointed. Whether it’s disappointment in Bucky or you, you can’t tell.

“I’ve got plenty more information, Captain,” you pipe up, keeping your voice strong and confident. He looks at you with a light frown wrinkling his forehead. “Do you really think I’d tell you everything I know? Especially without first guaranteeing my safety?”

Romanoff smirks at you and Stark gives a small shrug.

Rogers mulls this over for a moment, trying to hide the struggle in his mind from his face.

“She saved my skin on our way over the border too Steve,” Bucky offers softly, vying for your favor in Rogers’ decision.

“She cut and run the second she had an opening,” Steve argues, turning his head to look Bucky straight on.

“She gave up a fully loaded assault rifle for a Glock with 4 bullets. Three of which she used to save my ass. Tell me that doesn’t at least warrant a chance.”

“You knew?” You almost yell at him, your jaw hanging in disbelief.

He laughs harshly, glancing at you. “Of course I knew! You think I didn’t check your gun when you fell asleep?”

His eyes linger on you before turning back to Steve. Then, a little quieter he says, “She needs a way out the same way I did. The same way Nat did.”

Rogers leans a little closer to Bucky and says something inaudible. Stark leans into the table with his back to you and gives Romanoff a look you can’t see. Judging by her reaction, a smirk and subtle eye roll, it’s either a joke or something about you and Barnes.

No. That’s just your paranoia talking. Your paranoia and the itching need for a distraction from the heat of the wetness still pooled between your thighs.

The young brunette across from you runs her hands through her hair and another look crosses her face. She doesn’t meet your eyes when you look at her so you turn back to Bucky and Rogers. They’re still leaned in close whispering back and forth.

Now that most of the conversation amongst the others has stopped, you find it very hard not to think about how close the head of Bucky’s cock was to you barely thirty minutes ago. How even after a half an hour you’re still a mess.

And the bastard is acting like this is just another day at the office. Standing so nonchalantly with his arms crossed and shoulders relaxed like the topic of your fate is nothing to him. But he has to look that way, right? Or they’d know. They’d find out and accuse you of tricking him and there goes your chance.

Unless they already know.

Another thought dawns on you and you try to hide the fear. Assuming that you’re correct and Bucky’s senses had been heightened, Rogers’ had been too. Which meant that if Bucky could smell your arousal increase from the bathroom, Rogers could have caught the same sent the second you stepped into this room.

If all of that is true, you were doomed the moment Bucky opened that door. Captain America wouldn’t let someone like you poison his best man.

As if on cue, Rogers looks up from his hushed conversation with Bucky and directly at you. You freeze under his watch, not sure what to do or how to react, just waiting for him to say something. To say you’re manipulating Barnes to get what you want, or you’re using him for his body or-

Rogers’ eyes leave you and the instant relief that floods your system is replaced with uncomfortable heat when Bucky’s replaces them.

You try to ignore him and look at the other Avengers. Wilson looks from Romanoff to you, lingering for an extra second, then to Stark. Romanoff is chatting quietly to them and you see your name leave her full lips before Stark shakes his head a little too enthusiastically and Wilson raises a brow.

Stark glances over his shoulder at you through his black rimmed glasses, then back to Romanoff. 

You almost don’t notice the looks between Rogers and the girl across from you. He raises his eyebrows quizzically at her and she nods with a faint smile. His shoulders seem to un-tense and he looks back at Bucky.

“Okay,” the Captain nods.

A faint smile hits the corner of Bucky’s lips.

“She’s got one chance. We’ll talk conditions later. For now, get her some rest and some clean clothes.” You think you see him wrinkle his nose and your heart stops. He can totally smell you.

But when he looks up to Bucky, and grips his shoulder roughly, the panic fades. They exchange a couple more hushed words and Bucky’s walking towards you. He pushes the glass door open and nods with his head for you to get up.

You rise from the seat, glance around at the faces watching you, and hope that the hickey isn’t visible and the chair you just left is bone dry. 

The first voice you hear right before the door closes behind you is Stark’s, and you can’t tell if it’s angry or indifferent because your mind is immediately drawn to the heat of the body towering behind you.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave criticism! I will not hate you I promise! (as long as you're not a dick about it I will love you)


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